LIBRARY 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

hr 
Diana  Pohlman 


A\ASTER 
PIECES 

OF  IHEjS 

WORLD'S 
BESTj/ 
LITERATURE 

EDITED  BY 

JEANNEnEL. 
GILDER  j< 


CLASSIC  PUBLISHING  CO.,  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,   MCMX,   by 

ORSAMUS   TURNER   HARRIS 

New  York 


Printed  in  the 
"Unit(d   Statos  of  America 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS 

PA9S 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH 7 

Westminster  Abbey.     S'T  Roger  at  the  Play. 
Sir  Roger  as  a  Host.      "  Country  Sunday. 

ffJSCHYLUS 24 

The  Complaint  of  Prometheus. 

A  Prayer  to  Artemis.     The  Vision  of  Cassandra. 

JESOP 31 

The  Ass  in  the  Lion's  Skin.  The  Wolf  in  Sheep's  Clothing. 

The  Country  Mouse  and  the  City  Mouse. 

The  Wolf  and  the  Lamb.     The  Bundle  of  Sticks. 

ALDRICH.  THOMAS  BAILEY 35 

Baby  Bell.     Prescience. 
Sweetheart,  Sigh  No  Mopp. 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM 40 

The  Ruined    Chapel.     Song.     The    Bubble. 
Robin    Redbreast. 

ANDERSEN,  HANS  CHRISTIAN 43 

The  Gardener  of  the  Manor.     The  Little  Match-Girl. 
The  Shadow. 

A.NGELO,  MICHEL 63 

Sonnets  to  Vittoria. 

Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Vittoria. 

On  Dante. 

ARABIAN  NIGHTS,  The  .......         66 

The  Forty  Thieves. 

The  First  Voyage  of  Sindbad  the  Sailor. 

ARISTOPHANES  ...  98 

Grand    Chorus   of  Birds. 
The  Call  to  the  Nightingale 
"The   Women's   Festival. " 

ARISTOTLE 102 

Prosecution    and    Defense. 

On  Pleasing  the  Judges.     On  Excellence  of  Style. 

The  Highest  Good  of  Man. 

ARNOLD,  EDWIN  U© 

Serenade.     The   Light   of   Asia.     He   and   She- 
A  Home  Song.     The  Rajah's  Ride 


▼OI*   I— 1 


1 


INDEX    TO    AUTHORS 

PA6B 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW o     .       136 

The  Forsaken  Merman. 

Memorial   Verses. 

A  Final  "Word  on  America.     The  Real  Bums. 

AURELIUS,  MARCUS 152 

The  Beauty  of  the  World. 

To  the  Pure  AU  Things  Are  Pure. 

The  Gods  Be  Thanked. 

AUSTEN,  JANE 156 

Mr.  Collins  Proposes  and  Elizabeth  Disposes. 

Elizabeth  Defies  Lady  Catherine. 

Lydia   Bennet's   Wedding. 

Mr,  Bennet  and  Mr.  Collins  Play  Backgammon. 

BACHELLER,  IRVING 181 

The  Sea  Fight. 
BACON,  LORD „      .      .      .       191 

Translation  of  the  137th  Psalm. 
Life.     Of  Love.     Of  Death. 
Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life. 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA 198 

Woo'd  and  Married  and  A'. 
It  Was  on  a  Morn. 

BALZAC,  HONORE  DE 202 

The  Greatness  and  the  Decline  of  Cesar  Birotteau. 
Eugenie    Grandet. 

BARRIE,  JAMES  MATTHEW 221 

Courtship.     Election  Day  Festivities. 
Wet  Days  in  Thrums. 

BEACONSFIELD,   LORD 243 

Lady   Corisande. 
BEDE,   VENERABLE 253 

Description  of  Britain. 
BERANGER,    PIERRE   JEAN    DE 261 

Lisette  in  Attic  CeU.     The  Old  Vagabond. 
BESANT,  WALTER 265 

The  Child  of  Samson. 
BJORNSON.BJORNSTJERNE 278 

The  Princess.  The  North  Land.     Ame. 
BLACKMORE,   RT  CHARD   DODDRIDGE     ...       298 

In  the  Doone  Valley. 


INDEX  TO   TITLES 

PAGK 

Ame Bjdmstjeme  Bj'dmson  279 

Asa   in  the   Lion's  Skin,  The JEsop  31 

Baby  Bell Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  35 

Beauty  of  the  World,  The        .      .      .      Marcus  Aurelius  152 
Bennet  (Mr.)  and  Mr.   Collins  Play  Backgammon 

Ja7ie  Austen  177 

Bubble,    The William    Allingham  41 

Bundle  of  Sticks,  The ^sop  34 

Burns,  The  Real Matthew  Arnold  145 

Call  to  the  Nightingale,  The  ....     Aristophanes  lOO 
Cesar  Birotteau,  The  Greatness  and  the  Decline  of, 

Honore  de  Balzac  202 
Collins  (Mr.)  Proposes  and  Elizabeth  Disposes 

Jane  Austen  156 

Complaint  of  Prometheus,  The    ....     JEschylus  24 

Country  Mouse  and  the  City  Mouse,  The      .      .     ^sop  32 

Country  Sunday,  A Joseph    Addison  20 

Courtship      ......     James    Matthew    Barrie  221 

Dante,   On Michel   Angela  65 

Death,  Of Lord  Bacon  195 

Description   of  Britain Venerable  Bede  253 

Doone  Valley ;  In  the  .      .     Richard  Doddridge  Blackmore  298 

Election  Day  Festivities     .      .     James  Matthew  Barrie  231 

Elizabeth  Defies  Lady  Catherine     .      .      .  Jane  Austen  161 

Eugenie  Grandet Honore  de  Balzac  213 

Excellence  of  Style,  On Aristotle  109 

Final  Word  on  America,  A     ,      .      .     Matthew  Arnold  142 

Forsaken  Merman,  The      ....     Matthew  Arnold  136 

Forty  Thieves,  The Arabian  Nights  66 

Gardener  of  the  Manor,  The   .   Hans  Christian  Andersen  43 

Gods  Be  Thanked,  The     ....     Marcus  Aurelius  153 

Grand  Chorus  of  Birds Aristophanes  98 

He  and  She .     Edwin  Arnold  129 

Highest  Good  of  Man,  The Aristotle  115 

Home  Song,  A Edwin  Arnold  131 

It  Was  on  a  Mom     .      .      .      .      ^      .     Joanna  BaiUie  200 

3 


INDEX   TO   TITLES 

Lady  Corisande Lord  Beaconsfield 

£,ifo       ...  Lord  Bacon 

Light  of  Asia,  The Edwin  Arnold 

Lisette  in  Attic  Cell  .  .  .  Pierre  Jean  de  Beranger 
Little  Match-Girl,  The     .      .      Hans  Christum  Andersen 

Love,  Of Lord  Bacon 

Lydia  Bennet's  Wedding  .....  Jane  Austen 
Marriage  and  Single  Life,  Of    ...      .     Lord  Bacon 

Memorial   Verses Matthew   Arnold 

North  Land,  The  ....  Bjdmstjerne  Bjdrnson 
Old  Vagabond,  The        .      .     Pierre  Jean  de  Beranger 

Pleasing   the   Judges,  On Aristotle 

Prayer  to  Artemis,   A JEschylus 

Prescience Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

Princess,  The Bjornsljeme    Bjdrnson 

Prosecution  and  Defense Aristotle 

Rajah's  Ride,  The  .....  Edwin  Arnold 
Robin  Redbreast     ....  William  Allingham 

Ruined  Chapel,  The William  Allingham 

Samson,    The    Child    of       ....      Walter    Besant 

Sea  Fight,  The Irving  Bacheller 

Serenade Edwin  Arnold 

Shadow,  The  .....  Hans  Christian  Andersen 
Sindbad  the  Sailor,  The  First  Voyage  of  .   Arabian  Nights 

Sir  Roger  as  a  Host Joseph  Addison 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Play Joseph  Addison 

Song William  Allingham 

Sweetheart,  Sigh  No  More  .  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 
To  the  Pure  art  Things  are  Pure  .  .  Marcus  Aurelius 
Translation  of  the  137th  Psalm     .      .      .     Lord  Bacon 

Vision  of  Cassandra,  The JUschylus 

Vittoria,  Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  .  .  Michel  Angela 
Vittoria,    Sonnets    to       .      .      .      .      .     Michel  Angela 

Westminster    Abbey Joseph  Addison 

Wet  Days  in  Thrums     .      .      .     James  Matthew  Barrie 

Wolf   and   the   Lamb,  The ^sop 

Wolf  in  Sheep's  Clothing,  The ^sop 

Women's  Festival,  The Aristophanes 

Woc'd  and  Jiarried  and  A'     ....   Joanna  Baillie 


EDITOR'S   FOREWORD 

ARE  there  not  already  anthologies  enough? 
Why  a  new  one  ?  To  such  inquiries 
many  answers  might  be  made,  but  two  will 
sufficiently  set  forth  the  reasons  why  this 
series  is  not  only  worth  while,  but  why  it 
meets  an  existing  demand. 

Most  of  the  anthologies  are  costly.  To  own 
them,  one  must  pay  many  dollars;  not,  per- 
haps, more  dollars  than  they  are  worth,  but 
more  dollars  than  one  may  find  it  convenient 
to  spare.  The  anthology  to  which  this  is  the 
foreword  is  the  least  expensive  work  of  its 
class.  That  is  one  of  its  two  best  reasons  for 
being.  The  other  is  that  this  one  differs  from 
its  predecessors  in  aiming  less  at  quantity  than 
at  quality. 

It  is  impossible  to  make  a  large  anthology 
without  including  many  names  that  are  not 
now,  and  never  will  be  recorded  on  Fame's 
eternal  bead  roll.  Perhaps  some  of  the  au- 
thors represented  in  these  volumes  may  never 
attain  that  position,  but  the  number  of  such 
is  smaller  than  in  any  similar  works.  The 
Editor's  plan  has  been  to  give  copious  extracts 
from  the  writers  of  admitted  eminence,  rather 
5 


EDITOR  S    FOREWORD 

than  briefer  selections  from  a  host  of  the 
lesser  lights  of  literature. 

In  many  instances  the  authors  now  living 
have  made  their  own  selections^  which  gives 
special  interest  to  the  work.  It  is  not  always 
that  an  author  knows  what  is  his  best,  but  the 
Editor  is  inclined  to  think  that  those  who  have 
named  the  selections  by  which  they  prefer  to 
be  represented  here  have  chosen  wisely,  and  to 
these  authors  the  Editor  gives  sincere  thanks. 
Thanks  are  also  due  to  those  who  have  ap- 
proved of  the  selections  made  by  the  Editor; 
and  thanks  are  due  furthermore  to  the  pub- 
lishers who  have  graciously  permitted  the  use 
of  copyrighted  material. 

In  the  case  of  all  such  material  the  Editor 
has  been  at  pains  to  name  the  publisher  so  that 
the  reader  whose  appetite  is  whetted  by  the 
extracts  will  know  just  where  to  go  for  more. 
The  reading  appetite  grows  with  what  it  feeds 
upon  and  it  is  our  firm  conviction  that  these 
selections  from  the  works  of  the  masters  will 
do  much  to  create  a  wider  circle  of  readers 
for  the  writings  from  which  they  have  been 
chosen. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 


Joseph  Addisox,  poet,  essayist  and  dramatist,  was 
born  at  Milston,  Wiltshire,  England,  May  1,  1672. 
His  father,  who  later  became  Dean  of  Lichfield, 
instilled  in  his  mind  the  love  of  literature.  Young 
Addison  attended  first  the  famous  Charter  House 
School  in  London,  and  later  matriculated  at  Ox- 
ford. Destined  for  the  church,  his  talent  for  writing 
drew  him  into  political  life.  His  poem,  "  The  Cam- 
paign," celebrating  the  victory  of  Marlborough, 
brought  him  a  commissionership,  and  he  was  seldom 
without  office  until  his  death  at  Holland  House,  in 
1719.  His  contributions  to  the  "  Tatler "  and  the 
"  Spectator  "  made  him  the  most  famous  essayist  of 
his  time.  His  writings,  instructive,  imbued  with  a 
cheerful  philosophy,  a  touch  of  gayety  here  and 
there,  and  of  an  almost  faultless  diction,  live  as 
models  of  their  kind.  The  papers  on  Milton,  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  and  "The  Vision  of  Mirza" 
are  his  most  famous  works. 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 

(From  the  " Spectator") 

WHEN  I  am  in  a  serious  humor  T  very  often 
walk  by  myself  in  Westminster  Abbey;  where 
the  gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  use  to  which  it  is 
applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the  building,  and  the 
condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  fill 
the  mind  with  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or  rather 
thoughtfulness,  that  is  not  disagreeable.  I  yester- 
day passed  a  whole  afternoon  in  the  churchyard, 
the  cloisters,  and  the  church,  amusing  myself  with 
the  tombstones  and  inscriptions  that  I  met  with  in 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 

those  several  regions  of  the  dead.  Most  of  them 
recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried  person  but  that 
he  was  born  upon  one  day,  and  died  upon  another; 
xhe  whole  history  of  his  life  being  comprehended  in 
those  two  circumstances  that  are  common  to  all  man- 
kind. I  could  not  but  look  upon  these  registers  of 
existence,  whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  kind  of 
satire  upon  the  departed  persons;  who  had  left  no 
other  memorial  of  them  but  that  they  were  born  and 
that  they  died.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  several 
persons  mentioned  in  the  battles  of  heroic  poems, 
who  have  sounding  names  given  them,  for  no  other 
reason  but  that  they  may  be  killed,  and  are  cele- 
brated for  nothing  but  being  knocked  on  the  head. 
.  .  .  The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in 
holy  writ  by  "  the  path  of  an  arrow,"  which  is  im- 
mediately closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church  I  entertained  my- 
self with  the  digging  of  a  grave;  and  saw  in  every 
shovelful  of  it  that  was  throwTi  up  the  fragment  of 
a  bone  or  skull  intermixed  with  a  kind  of  fresh 
mouldering  earth  that  some  time  or  other  had  a 
place  in  the  composition  of  a  human  body.  Upon 
this  I  began  to  consider  with  myself  what  innumera- 
ble multitudes  of  people  lay  confused  together  undei 
the  pavement  of  that  ancient  cathedral:  how  men 
and  women,  friends  and  enemies,  priests  and  sol- 
diers, monks  and  prebendaries,  were  crumbled 
amongst  one  another,  and  blended  together  in  the 
same  common  mass ;  how  beauty,  strength  and  youth, 
with  old  age,  weakness,  and  deformity,  lay  undistin- 
guished in  the  same  promiscuous  heap  of  matter, 
After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  magazine  of 
mortality,  as  it  were,  in  the  lump,  I  examined  it 
more  particularly  by  the  accounts  which  I  found 
on  several  of  the  monuments  which  are  raised  in 
every  quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric.  Some  of  them 
were  covered  with  such  extravagant  epitaphs,  that  if 
8 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 

it  were  possible  for  the  dead  person  to  be  ae» 
quainted  with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the  praise* 
which  his  friends  have  bestowed  upon  him.  Their 
are  others  so  excessively  modest  that  they  deliver  the 
character  of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or  He- 
brew, and  by  that  means  are  not  understood  once  i» 
a  twelvemonth.  In  the  poetical  quarter  I  found 
there  were  poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and  monu- 
ments which  had  no  poets.  I  observed,  indeed,  that 
the  present  war  had  filled  the  church  with  many  of 
these  uninhabited  monuments,  which  had  been 
erected  *o  the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies  were 
perhaps  buried  in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or  in  the 
bosom  of  the  ocean.     .     .     . 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left  the 
repository  of  our  English  kings  for  the  contempla- 
tion of  another  day,  when  I  shall  find  my  mind  dis- 
posed for  so  serious  an  amusement.  I  know  that 
entertainments  of  this  nature  are  apt  to  raise  dark 
and  dismal  thoughts  in  timorous  minds  and  gloomy 
imaginations;  but  for  my  own  part,  though  I  am  al- 
ways serious,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  melan- 
choly; and  can,  therefore,  take  a  view  of  nature  in 
her  deep  and  solemn  scenes  with  the  same  pleasure 
as  in  her  most  gay  and  delightful  ones.  By  this 
means  I  can  improve  myself  with  those  objects 
which  others  consider  with  terror.  When  I  look 
upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy 
dies  in  me;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beauti- 
ful, every  inordinate  desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet 
with  the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my 
heart  melts  with  compassion;  when  I  see  the  tomb 
of  the  parents  themselves,  I  consider  the  vanity  of 
grieving  for  those  whom  we  must  quickly  follow. 
When  I  see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them, 
when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the 
holy  men  that  divi^led  the  world  with  their  contests 
and  disputes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishmeu* 
5r 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 

<m  the  Httle  competitions,  faxitions,  and  debates  of 
mankind.  When  I  read  the  several  dates  of  the 
tombs,  of  some  that  died  yesterday,  and  some  six 
hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that  great  day  when 
we  shall  all  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make  our 
appearance  together. 


SIR  ROGER  AT  THE  PLAY 

(From  the  "  Spectator  ") 

MY  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  when  we  last 
met  together  at  the  club,  told  me  that  he  had 
a  great  mind  to  see  the  new  tragedy  with  me,  assur- 
ing me  at  the  same  time  that  he  had  not  been  at  a 
play  these  twenty  years.  The  last  I  saw,  said  Sir 
Roger,  was  the  Committee,  which  I  should  not  have 
gone  to  neither,  had  not  I  been  told  beforehand  that 
it  was  a  good  Church  of  England  comedy.  He  then 
proceeded  to  inquire  of  me  who  this  Distressed 
Mother  was;  and  upon  hearing  that  she  was  Hector's 
widow,  he  told  me  that  her  husband  was  a  brave 
man,  and  that  when  he  was  a  schoolboy  he  had  read 
his  life  at  the  end  of  the  dictionary.  My  friend 
asked  me,  in  the  next  place,  if  there  would  not  be 
some  danger  in  coming  home  late,  in  case  the  Mo- 
hocks should  be  abroad.  "  I  assure  you  (says  he), 
I  thought  I  had  fallen  into  their  hands  last  night; 
for  I  observed  two  or  three  lusty  black  men  that  fol- 
lowed me  halfway  up  Fleet  Street,  and  mended  their 
pace  behind  me,  in  proportion  as  I  put  on  to  get 
away  from  them.  You  must  know  (continued  the 
knight  with  a  smile)  I  fancied  they  had  a  mind  to 
hunt  me:  for  I  remember  an  honest  gentleman  in 
my  neighborhood  who  was  served  such  a  trick  in 
King  Charles  the  Second's  time;  for  which  reason 
he  has  not  ventured  himself  in  town  ever  since.  I 
might  have  shown  them  very  good  sport,  had  this 

10 


SIR    ROGER    AT    THE    PLAY 

been  their  desiorn;  for  as  I  am  an  old  fox  hunter, 
I  should  have  turned  and  dodged,  and  have  played 
them  a  thousand  tricks  they  had  never  seen  in 
their  lives  before."  Sir  Roger  added  that  if  these 
gentlemen  had  any  such  intention,  they  did  not  suc- 
ceed very  well  in  it;  "for  I  threw  them  out  (says 
he)  at  the  end  of  Norfolk  Street,  where  I  doubled 
the  corner,  and  got  shelter  in  my  lodgings  before 
they  could  imagine  what  was  become  of  me.  How- 
ever (says  the  knight),  if  Captain  Sentry  will  make 
one  with  us  to-morrow  night,  and  if  you  will  both  of 
you  call  on  me  about  four  o'clock,  that  we  may  be 
at  the  house  before  it  is  full,  I  will  have  my  own 
coach  in  readiness  to  attend  you,  for  John  tells  me 
he  has  got  the  fore  wheels  mendea." 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  meet  me  there  at 
the  appointed  hour,  bid  Sir  Roger  fear  nothing,  for 
that  he  had  put  on  the  same  sword  which  he  had 
made  use  of  at  the  battle  of  Steenkirk.  Sir  Roger's 
servants,  and  among  the  rest  my  old  friend  the  but- 
ler had,  I  found,  provided  themselves  with  good 
oaken  plants,  to  attend  their  master  upon  tbii;  occa- 
sion. When  he  had  placed  him  in  his  coach,  with 
myself  at  his  left  hand,  the  captain  before  him,  and 
his  butler  at  the  head  of  his  footmen  in  the  rear, 
we  convoyed  him  in  safety  to  the  playhouse;  where, 
after  having  marched  up  the  entry  in  good  order,  the 
captain  and  I  went  in  with  him,  and  seated  him  be- 
tv'xt  us  in  the  pit.  As  soon  as  the  house  was  full, 
and  the  candles  lighted,  my  old  friend  stood  up  and 
looked  about  him  with  that  pleasure  which  a  mind 
seasoned  with  humanity  naturally  feels  in  itself  at 
the  sight  of  a  multitude  of  people  who  seem  pleased 
with  one  another  and  partake  of  the  same  common 
entertainment.  I  could  not  but  fancy  to  myself,  as 
the  old  man  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,  that 
he  made  a  very  proper  center  to  a  tragic  audience. 
Upon  the  entering  of  Pyrrhus,  the  knight  told  me 

11 


JOSEPH    ADDISGIT 

that  he  did  not  believe  the  King  of  France  himself 
had  a  better  strut.  I  was,  indeed,  very  attentive  to 
my  old  friend's  remarks,  because  I  looked  upon 
them  as  a  piece  of  natural  criticism,  and  was  well 
pleased  to  hear  him,  at  the  conclusion  of  almost 
every  scene,  teUing  me  that  he  could  not  imagine 
how  the  play  would  end.  One  while  he  appeared 
much  concerned  for  Andromache;  and  a  little 
while  after  as  much  for  Hermione ;  and  was  ex- 
tremely puzzled  to  think  what  would  become  of 
Pyrrhus. 

When  Sir  Roger  saw  Andromache's  obstinate  re- 
fusal to  her  lover's  importunities,  he  whispered  me  ir 
the  ear  that  he  was  sure  she  would  never  have  him;  tc 
which  he  added,  with  a  more  than  ordinary  vehe- 
mence, you  cannot  imagine,  sir,  what  it  is  to  have  to 
do  with  a  widow.  Upon  Pyrrhus  his  threatening 
afterwards  to  leave  her,  the  knight  shook  his  head, 
and  muttered  to  himself.  Ay,  do  if  you  can.  This 
part  dwelt  so  much  upon  my  friend's  imagination, 
that  at  the  close  of  the  third  act,  as  I  was  thinking 
of  something  else,  he  whispered  in  my  ear,  "  These 
widows,  sir,  are  the  most  perverse  creatures  in  the 
world.  But  pray  (says  he),  you  that  are  a  critic,  is 
this  play  according  to  your  dramatic  rules,  as  you 
call  them?  Should  your  people  in  tragedy  always 
talk  to  be  understood?  Why,  there  is  not  a  single 
sentence  in  this  play  that  I  do  not  know  the  mean- 
ing of." 

The  fourth  act  very  luckily  begun  before  I  had 
time  to  give  the  old  gentleman  an  answer.  "  Well 
(says  the  knight,  sitting  down  with  great  satisfac- 
tion), I  suppose  we  are  now  to  see  Hector's  ghost." 
He  then  renewed  his  attention,  and,  from  time  t< 
time,  fell  a  praising  the  widow.  He  made,  indeed 
a  little  mistake  as  to  one  of  her  pages,  whom,  at  hi; 
first  entering,  he  took  for  Astyanax;  but  he  quickly 
set  himself  right  in  that  particular,  though,  at  tbe 


SIR    ROGER    AT    THE    PLAY 

same  time,  he  owned  he  should  have  been  very  gla4 
to  have  seen  the  little  boy,  "who,"  says  he,  "must 
needs  be  a  very  fine  cliild  by  the  account  that  is 
given  of  him."  Upon  Hermione's  going  off  with  a 
menace  to  Pyrrhus,  the  audience  gave  a  loud  clap; 
to  which  Sir  Roger  added,  "  On  my  word,  a  notable 
young  baggage ! " 

As  there  was  a  very  remarkable  silence  and  still- 
ness in  the  audience  during  the  whole  action,  it  was 
natural  for  them  to  take  the  opportunity  of  the  in- 
tervals between  the  acts  to  express  their  opinion  of 
the  players,  and  of  their  respective  parts.  Sir 
Roger,  hearing  a  cluster  of  them  praise  Orestes, 
struck  in  with  them,  and  told  them  that  he  thought 
his  friend  Pylades  was  a  very  sensible  man;  as  they 
were  afterwards  applauding  Pyrrhus,  Sir  Roger 
put  in  a  second  time,  "  And  let  me  tell  you  (says 
he),  though  he  speaks  but  little,  I  like  the  old  fellow 
in  whiskers  as  well  as  any  of  them."  Captain  Sen- 
try, seeing  two  or  three  wags  who  sat  near  us  lean 
with  an  attentive  ear  towards  Sir  Roger,  and  fearing 
lest  they  should  smoke  the  knight,  plucked  him  by 
the  elbow,  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear,  that 
lasted  till  the  opening  of  the  fifth  act.  The  knight 
was  wonderfully  attentive  to  the  account  which 
Orestes  gives  of  Pyrrhus  his  death,  and  at  the  con- 
clusion of  it  told  me  it  was  such  a  bloody  piece  of 
work  that  he  was  glad  it  was  not  done  upon  the 
stage.  Seeing  afterwards  Orestes  in  his  raving  fit, 
he  grew  more  than  ordinary  serious,  and  took  occa- 
sion to  moralize  (in  his  way)  upon  an  evil  con- 
science, adding  that  "  Orestes,  in  his  madness,  looked 
as  if  he  saw  something." 

As  we  were  the  first  that  came  into  the  house,  so 
we  were  the  last  that  went  out  of  it;  being  resolved  to 
have  a  clear  passage  for  our  old  friend,  whom  we 
did  not  care  to  venture  among  the  jostling  of  the 
crowd.    Sir  Roger  went  out  fully  satisfied  with  latf 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 

entertainment,  and  we  guarded  him  to  his  lodgings 
HI  the  same  manner  that  we  brought  him  to  the  play- 
house; being  highly  pleased,  for  my  part,  not  only 
with  the  performance  of  the  excellent  piece  which  had 
been  presented,  but  with  the  satisfaction  which  it 
had  given  to  the  good  old  man. 


SIR  ROGER  AS  A  HOST 

(From  the  "  Spectator  ") 

HAVING  often  received  an  invitation  from  my 
friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  to  pass  away 
a  month  with  him  in  the  country,  I  last  week  accom- 
panied him  thither,  and  am  settled  with  him  for 
some  time  at  his  country  house,  where  I  intend  to 
form  several  of  my  ensuing  speculations.  Sir 
Roger,  who  is  very  well  acquainted  with  my  humor, 
lets  me  rise  and  go  to  bed  when  I  please,  dine  at  his 
own  table  or  in  my  chamber,  as  I  think  fit,  sit  still 
and  say  nothing  without  bidding  me  be  merry. 
When  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  come  to  see  him 
he  only  shows  n»e  ai  n  distance.  Ah  i  nuvt  t)een 
walking  in  his  fields  1  have  observed  them  stealing 
a  sight  of  me  over  a  hedge,  and  have  heard  the 
knight  desiring  them  not  to  let  me  see  them,  for 
that  I  hated  to  be  stared  at. 

"  I  am  the  more  at  ease  in  Sir  Roger's  family, 
because  it  consists  of  sober,  staid  persons;  for  as 
the  knight  is  the  best  master  in  the  world,  he  seldom 
changes  his  servants;  and  as  he  is  beloved  by  all 
about  him,  his  servants  never  care  for  leaving  him; 
by  this  means  his  domestics  are  all  in  years,  and 
grown  old  with  their  master.  You  would  take  his 
valet-de-chambre  for  his  brother,  his  butler  is  gray- 
headed,  his  groom  is  one  of  the  gravest  men  that 
I  have  ever  seen,  and  his  coachman  has  the  looks  of 

14 


SIR    ROGER    AS    A    HOST 

A  privy  councillor.  You  see  the  goodness  of  the 
master  even  in  his  old  house-dog,  and  in  a  gray  pad 
that  is  kept  in  the  stable  with  great  care  and  tender- 
ness, out  of  regard  for  his  past  services,  though  he 
has  been  useless  for  several  years. 

"  I  could  not  but  observe,  with  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure,  the  joy  that  appeared  in  the  countenances 
of  these  ancient  domestics  upon  my  friend's  arrival 
at  his  country-seat.  Some  of  them  could  not  refrain 
from  tears  at  the  sight  of  their  old  master;  every 
one  of  them  pressed  forward  to  do  something  for 
him,  and  seemed  discouraged  if  they  were  not  em- 
ployed. At  the  same  time  the  good  old  knight,  with 
a  mixture  of  the  father  and  the  master  of  the 
family,  tempered  the  inquiries  after  his  own  affairs 
with  several  kind  questions  relating  to  themselves. 
This  humanity  and  good  nature  engages  everybody 
to  him,  so  that  when  he  is  pleasant  upon  any  of 
them,  all  his  family  are  in  good  humor,  and  none 
so  much  as  the  person  whom  he  diverts  himself  with; 
on  the  contrary,  if  he  coughs,  or  betrays  any  in- 
firmity of  old  age,  it  is  easy  for  a  stander-by  to 
observe  a  secret  concern  in  the  looks  of  all  hi., 
servants. 

"  My  worthy  friend  has  put  me  under  the  par 
ticular  care  of  his  butler,  who  is  a  very  prudem 
man,  and,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  his  fellow-servants, 
wonderfully  desirous  of  pleasing  me,  because  the^ 
have  often  heard  their  master  talk  of  me  as  of  his 
particular  friend." 

•*  My  chief  companion  when  Sir  Roger  is  diverting 
himself  in  the  woods  or  the  fields,  is  a  very  vener* 
able  man  who  is  ever  with  Sir  Roger,  and  has  lived 
at  his  house  in  the  nature  of  a  chaplain  above  thirty 
years.  This  gentleman  is  a  person  of  good  sense 
and  some  learning,  of  a  very  regular  life  and  oblig- 
ing conversation;  he  heartily  loves  Sir  Roger,  and 
fenows  that  he  is  very  much  in  the  old  imight'tf 
U 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 

esteem,  so  that  he  lives  in  tne  familj  rather  as  a 
relation  than  a  dependent. 

"  I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers  that 
my  friend  Sir  Roger  amidst  all  his  good  qualities, 
is  something  of  a  humorist ;  and  that  his  virtues  as 
well  as  imperfections  are,  as  it  were,  tinged  by  a 
certain  extravagance  which  makes  them  particularly 
his,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those  of  other 
men.  This  cast  of  mind,  as  it  is  generally  very  in- 
nocent in  itself,  so  it  renders  his  conversation  highly 
agreeable  and  more  delightful  than  the  same  degree 
of  sense  and  virtue  would  appear  in  their  common 
and  ordinary  colors.  As  I  was  walking  with  him 
last  night,  he  asked  me  how  I  liked  the  good  man 
whom  I  have  just  now  mentioned:  and  without  stay- 
ing for  my  answer,  told  me  that  he  was  afraid  of 
being  insulted  with  Latin  and  Greek  at  his  own 
table ;  for  which  reason  he  desired  a  particular 
friend  of  his  at  the  university  to  find  him  out  a 
clergyman  rather  of  plain  sense  than  much  learn- 
ing, of  a  good  aspect,  a  clear  voice,  a  sociable  tem- 
per, and,  if  possible,  a  man  that  understood  a  little 
of  backgammon.  *My  friend  (said  Sir  Roger) 
found  me  out  this  gentleman,  who,  besides  the 
endowments  required  of  him,  is,  they  tell  me,  a 
good  scholar,  though  he  does  not  show  it.  I  have 
given  him  the  parsonage  of  the  parish;  and  because 
I  know  his  value,  have  set  upon  him  a  good  annuity 
for  life.  If  he  outlives  me,  he  shall  find  that  he  was 
higher  in  my  esteem  than  perhaps  he  thinks  he  is« 
♦ie  has  now  been  with  me  thirty  years;  and  though 
ne  does  not  know  I  have  taken  notice  of  it,  has 
never  in  all  that  time  asked  anything  of  me  for 
himself,  though  be  is  every  day  soliciting  me  for 
something  in  behalf  of  one  or  other  of  my  tenants, 
his  parishioners.  There  has  not  been  a  law-suit  in 
the  parish  since  he  has  lived  among  them;  if  any 
dispute  arises,  they  apply  themselves  to  him  for  the 

»6 


SIR    ROGER    AS    A    HOST 

decision;  if  thej  do  not  acquiesce  in  his  judgment, 
wliich  I  tliink  never  happened  above  once  or  twice 
at  most,  thej  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first  settling  with 
me,  I  made  him  a  present  of  all  the  good  sermons 
wliich  have  been  printed  in  English,  and  only  begged 
of  him  that  every  Sunday  he  would  pronounce  one 
of  them  in  the  pulpit.  Accordingly,  he  has  digested 
them  into  such  a  series  that  they  follow  one  another 
naturally,  and  make  a  continued  system  of  practical 
divinity.' " 

Sir  Roger's  picture  gallery  is  an  interesting  por- 
tion of  liis  ancient  mansion.  There  is  one  picture 
in  it  which  has  reference  to  his  own  personal  history: 

"  At  the  very  upper  end  of  this  handsome  struc- 
ture I  saw  the  portraiture  of  two  young  men  stand- 
ing in  a  river,  the  one  naked,  the  other  in  a  livery. 
The  person  supported  seemed  half  dead,  but  still  so 
much  alive  as  to  show  in  his  face  exquisite  joy  and 
love  towards  the  other.  I  thought  the  fainting  figure 
resembled  my  friend  Sir  Roger;  and  looking  at  the 
butler,  who  stood  by  me,  for  an  account  of  it,  he 
informed  me  that  the  person  in  the  livery  was  a 
servant  of  Sir  Roger's,  who  stood  on  the  shore  while 
his  master  was  swimming,  and  observing  him  taken 
with  some  sudden  illness,  and  sink  under  water, 
jumped  in  and  saved  him.  He  told  me  Sir  Roger 
took  off  the  dress  he  was  in  as  soon  as  he  came 
home,  and  by  a  great  bounty  at  that  time,  followed 
by  his  favor  ever  since,  had  made  him  master  of  that 
pretty  seat  which  we  saw  at  a  distance  as  we  came 
to  this  house.  I  remembered,  indeed,  Sir  Roger  said, 
there  lived  a  very  worthy  gentleman  to  whom  he  was 
highly  obliged,  without  mentioning  anything  further. 
Upon  my  looking  a  little  dissatisfied  at  some  part 
of  the  picture,  my  attendant  informed  me  that  it 
was  against  Sir  Roger's  will,  and  at  the  earnest  re- 
quest of  the  gentleman  himself,  that  he  was  drawn 
in  the  habit  in  which  he  had  saved  his  master." 

17 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 

But  the  gallery  is  chiefly  filled  wjth  the  portraits 
of  the  old  De  Coverleys.  There  we  have  the  knight 
in  buff  of  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  who  won  "  a  maid 
of  honor,  the  greatest  beauty  of  her  time,"  in  a 
tournament  in  the  tilt-yard.  The  spendthrift  of  the 
next  generation — the  fine  gentleman  who  "  ruined 
everybody  that  had  anything  to  do  with  him,  but 
never  said  a  rude  thing  in  his  life,"  is  drawn  at 
full  length,  with  his  "  little  boots,  laces,  and  slashes." 
But  the  real  old  English  country  gentleman,  who 
kept  this  course  of  honor  in  evil  times — in  days  of 
civil  commotion,  and  afterwards  in  a  period  of  court 
profligacy — is  a  character  which  we  trust  will  never 
be  obsolete: 

"This  man  (pointing  to  him  I  looked  at)  I  take 
to  be  the  honor  of  our  house.  Sir  Humphrey  de 
Coverley:  he  was  in  his  dealings  as  punctual  as  a 
tradesman,  and  as  generous  as  a  gentleman.  He 
would  have  thought  himself  as  much  undone  by 
breaking  his  word  as  if  it  were  to  be  followed  by 
bankruptcy.  He  serv^ed  his  country  as  knight  of  this 
shire  to  his  dying  day.  He  found  it  no  easy  matter 
to  maintain  an  integrity  in  his  words  and  actions, 
even  in  things  that  regarded  the  oflSces  which  were 
incumbent  upon  him  in  the  care  of  his  own  affairs 
and  relations  of  life,  and  therefore  dreaded  (though 
he  had  great  talents)  to  go  into  employments  of 
state,  where  he  must  be  exposed  to  the  snares  of 
ambition.  Innocence  of  life  and  great  ability  were 
the  distinguishing  parts  of  his  character;  the  lat- 
ter, he  had  often  observed,  had  led  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  former,  and  he  used  frequently  to  lament 
that  great  and  good  had  not  the  same  signification. 
He  was  an  excellent  husbandman,  but  had  resolved 
not  to  exceed  such  a  degree  of  wealth;  all  above 
it  he  bestowed  in  secret  bounties,  many  years  after 
the  soim  he  aimed  at  for  his  own  use  was  attained. 
Yet  he  did  not  slacken  his  industry,  but  to  a  decent 

18 


SIrt    ROGER    AS    A    HOST 

old  age  spent  the  life  and  fortune  which  was  super- 
fluous to  himself  in  the  service  of  liis  friends  and 
neighbors." 

The  ghosts  which  used  to  haunt  Sir  Roger's  man- 
sion were  laid,  even  in  his  time,  by  a  good  orthodox 
process: 

"My  friend  Sir  Roger  has  often  told  me,  with  a 
great  deal  of  mirth,  that  at  his  first  coming  to  his 
estate  he  found  three  parts  of  his  house  altogether 
useless;  that  the  best  room  in  it  had  the  reputation 
of  being  haunted,  and  by  that  means  was  locked  up; 
that  noises  had  been  heard  in  his  long  gallery,  so 
that  he  could  not  get  a  servant  to  enter  it  after 
eight  o'clock  at  night;  that  the  door  of  one  of  his 
chambers  was  nailed  up,  because  there  went  a  story 
in  the  family,  that  a  butler  had  formerly  hanged 
himself  in  it;  and  that  his  mother,  who  lived  to  a 
great  age,  had  shut  up  half  the  rooms  in  the  house, 
in  which  either  her  husband,  a  son,  or  daughter  had 
died.  The  knight,  seeing  his  habitation  reduced  to 
so  small  a  compass,  and  himself  in  a  manner  shut 
out  of  his  own  house,  upon  the  death  of  his  mother 
ordered  all  the  apartments  to  be  flung  open,  and 
exorcised  by  his  chaplain,  who  lay  in  every  room, 
one  after  another,  and  by  that  means  dissipated  the 
fears  which  had  so  long  reigned  in  the  family." 

But  the  belief  in  apparitions  was  not  passed  awajo 
The  haunted  ruins  are  described  by  Addison  with 
his  usual  grace: 

"At  a  little  distance  from  Sir  Roger's  house, 
among  the  ruins  of  an  old  abbey,  there  is  a  l»ng 
walk  of  aged  elms,  which  are  shot  up  so  very  high, 
that  when  one  passes  under  them,  the  rooks  and 
crows  that  rest  upon  the  tops  of  them  seem  to  be 
cawing  in  another  region.  I  am  very  much  delighted 
with  this  sort  of  noise,  which  I  consider  as  a  kind  oi 
natural  prayer  to  that  Being  who  supplies  the  wants 
of  His  whole  creation,  and  who,  in  the  beautifuJl 
19 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 

language  of  the  Psalms,  feedeth  the  joung  ravena 
that  call  upon  him.  I  like  this  retirement  the  bet- 
ter, because  of  an  ill  report  it  lies  under  of  being 
haunted;  for  which  reason  (as  I  have  been  told  in 
the  family)  no  living  creature  ever  walks  in  it  be- 
sides the  chaplain.  Mj  good  friend  the  butler  de- 
sired me,  with  a  very  grave  face,  not  to  venture 
myself  in  it  after  sunset,  for  that  one  of  the  foot- 
men had  been  almost  frightened  out  of  his  wits  by 
a  spirit  that  appeared  to  him  in  the  shape  of  i 
black  horse  without  a  head;  to  which  he  added,  that 
about  a  month  ago  one  of  the  maids,  coming  home 
late  that  way  with  a  pail  of  milk  upon  her  head, 
heard  such  a  rustling  among  the  bushes  that  she  lei 
it  fall." 


I 


A    COUNTRY    SUNDAY 

(From  the  "  Spectator  "  ) 

AM  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  country 
Sunday,  and  think,  if  keeping  holy  the  seventh 
day  were  only  a  human  institution  it  would  be  the 
best  method  that  could  have  been  thought  of  for  the 
polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind.  It  is  certain 
the  country  people  would  soon  degenerate  into  a 
kind  of  savages  and  barbarians,  were  there  not  such 
frequent  returns  of  a  stated  time,  in  which  the 
whole  village  meet  together  with  their  best  faces, 
and  in  their  cleanest  habits,  to  converse  with  one 
another  upon  indifferent  subjects,  hear  their  duties 
explained  to  them  and  join  together  in  adoration 
of  the  Supreme  Being.  Sunday  clears  away  the  rust 
of  the  whole  week,  not  only  as  it  refreshes  in  their 
minds  the  notions  of  religion,  but  as  it  puts  both 
the  sexes  upon  appearing  in  their  most  agreeable 
forms,  and  exerting  all  such  qualities  as  are  apt  tc 
give  them  a  figure  in  the  eye  of  the  village.  A 
country  fellow  distinguishes  himself  as  much  in  the 

20 


A    COUNTRY    SUNDAY 

churchjard  as  a  citizen  does  upon  the  'Change,  the 
whole  parish  politics  being  generally  discussed  in 
that  place,  either  after  sermon  or  before  the  bell 
rings. 

"  My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  churchman, 
has  beautified  the  inside  of  his  church  with  several 
texts  of  his  own  choosing.  He  has  likewise  given  a 
handsome  pulpit-cloth,  and  railed  in  the  communion 
table  at  his  own  expense.  He  has  often  told  me,  that 
at  his  coming  to  his  estate,  he  found  his  parish- 
ioners very  irregular:  and  that  in  order  to  make 
them  kneel,  and  join  in  tli<e  responses,  he  gave  every 

^  one  of  them  a  hassock  and  a  Common  Prayer  Book ; 
and  at  the  same  time  employed  an  itinerant  singing- 

r  master,  who  goes  about  the  country  for  that  pur- 
pose, to  instruct  them  rightly  in  the  tunes  of  the 
Psalms,  upon  which  they  now  very  much  value 
themselves,  and  indeed  outdo  most  of  the  country/ 
churches  that  I  have  ever  heard. 

"As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  congrega- 
tion, he  keeps  them  in  very  good  order,  and  will 
suffer  nobody  to  sleep  in  it  besides  himself;  for  if 
by  chance  he  has  been  surprised  into  a  short  nap  at 
sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it,  he  stands  up  and 
looks  about  him,  and  if  he  sees  anybody  else  nod- 
ding, either  wakes  them  himself,  or  sends  his  serv- 
ants to  them.  Several  other  of  the  old  knight's 
particularities  break  out  upon  these  occasions. 
Sometimes  he  will  be  lengthening  out  a  verse  in  the 
singing  Psalms,  half  a  minute  after  the  rest  of  the 
congregation  have  done  with  it;  sometimes,  when 
he  is  pleased  with  the  matter  of  his  devotion,  he 
pronounces  Amen  three  or  four  times  in  the  same 
prayer;  and  sometimes  stands  up  when  everybody 
else  is  upon  their  knees,  to  count  the  congregation, 
or  see  if  any  of  his  tenants  are  missing. 

"  I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  hear  of 
my  old  friend,  in  the  midst  of  the  service,  callinj? 


JOSEPH    ADDISON 

out  to  one  John  Matthews  to  mind  what  he 
about  and  not  disturb  the  congregation.  This  John 
Matthews,  it  seems,  is  remarkable  for  being  an  idle 
fellow,  and  at  that  time  was  kicking  his  heels  for  his 
diversion.  This  authority  of  the  knight,  though  ex- 
erted in  that  odd  manner  which  accompanies  him 
in  afl  circumstances  of  life,  has  a  very  good  ef- 
fect upon  the  parish,  who  are  not  polite  enough  to 
Bee  anything  ridiculous  in  his  behavior;  besides  that 
the  general  good  sense  and  worthiness  of  his  char- 
acter make  his  friends  observe  these  little  singular- 
ities as  foils  that  rather  set  off  than  blemish  his 
good  qualities.  \ 

''  As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  pre-   I 
sumes   to   stir   till   Sir    Roger   is    gone   out   of  the  1 
church.     The  knight  walks  down  from  his  seat  in   < 
the  chancel  between  a  double  row  of  his  tenants, 
that  stand  bowing  to  him  on  each  side;    and  every    , 
now  and  then  inquires  how  such  a  one's  wife,  or 
mother,  or  son,  or  father  do,  whom  he  does  not  see 
at  church;    which  is  understood  as  a  secret  repri- 
mand to  the  person  that  is  absent.  ' 

"  The  chaplain  has  often  told  me,  that  upon   &    j 
catechising  day,  when  Sir  Roger  has  been  pleased    ! 
with  a  boy  that  answers  well,  he  has  ordered  a  Bible 
to  be  given  to  him  next  day  for  his  encouragement, 
and  sometimes  accompanies  it  with  a  flitch  of  bacon    ' 
to  his  mother.     Sir  Roger  has  likewise  added  five 
pounds  a  year  to  the  clerk's  place ;   and,  that  he  may    ' 
encourage   the   young   fellows   to   make   themselves    j 
perfect  in  the  church  service,  has   promised   upon    \ 
the  death  of  the  present  incumbent,  who  is  very  old,    ' 
to  bestow  it  according  to  merit. 

*'  The  fair  understanding  between  Sir  Roger  and    j 
his  chaplain,  and  thf  Jr  mutual  concurrence  in  doing 
good,  is  the  more  reinarkable,  because  the  very  next    j 
village  is  famous  for  the  differences  and  contentions    ! 
that  arise  between  the  parson  and  the  'squire,  who    \ 

22  i 


A    COUNTRY    SUNDAY 

Kve  in  a  perpetual  state  of  war.  The  parson  is 
alwajs  preaching  at  the  'squire,  and  the  'squire,  to 
be  revenged  on  the  parson,  never  comes  to  church. 
The  'squire  has  made  all  his  tenants  atheists  and 
tithe-stealers,  while  the  parson  instructs  them  every 
Sunday  in  the  dignity  of  his  order,  and  insinuates 
to  them,  in  almost  every  sermon,  that  he  is  a  better 
man  than  his  patron.  In  short,  matters  are  come  to 
such  an  extremity,  that  the  'squire  has  not  said  his 
prayers  either  in  public  or  private  this  half-year; 
and  the  parson  threatens  him,  if  he  does  not  mend 
his  manners,  to  pray  for  him  in  the  face  of  the 
whole  congregation. 

"  Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  frequent  in  the 
coMntry,  are  very  fatal  to  the  ordinary  people;  who 
are  so  used  to  be  dazzled  with  riches  that  they  pay 
as  much  deference  to  the  understanding  of  a  man 
of  an  estate  as  of  a  man  of  learning;  and  are  very 
hardly  brought  to  regard  any  truth,  how  important 
soever  it  may  be,  that  is  preached  to  them,  when 
they  know  there  are  several  men  of  five  hundred  a 
year  who  do  not  believe  it." 


^SCHYLUS  i 

1 

.(^CHTTus,  the  greatest  name  m  G^eek-  drama,  ^ 
was  born  at  Eleusis,  525  b.c.     He  fought  against  j 
the  Persian  invaders,  greatly  distinguishing  himself  i 
Rt  Marathon,  and  at  Salamis  teD  years  later.     This 
lent  coloring  to  one    of    the    poet's    most  striking 
pictures  in  "  The  Persians."     He  first  appeared  in  ^ 
the  role  of  tragedy  when  twenty-six.     His  dramas 
were  produced  in  rapid  succession,  but  only  seven 
survive.     He  died  456  b.c.     The  Middle  Ages  paid 
the  most  profound  reverence  to  his  name. 


THE    COMPLAINT    OF    PROMETHEUS 

iProm  **  Prometheus  Bound,"  Translation  of  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning) 

PROMETHEUS  (aloxe) 

0  Holy  ^ther,  and  swift-winged  Winds, 

And  River-wells,  and  laughter  innumerous 

Of  yon  Sea-waves!    Earth,  mother  of  us  all. 
And  all-viewing  cyclic  Sun,  I  cry  on  you, — 
Behold  me  a  god,  what  I  endure  from  gods! 

Behold,  with  throe  on  throe. 

How,  wasted  by  this  woe, 

1  wrestle  down  the  myriad  years  of  Time  I 

Behold,  how  fast  around  me 
The  new  King  of  the  happy  ones  sublime 
Has   flung   the   chain   he    forged,   has   shamed   and 

bound  me! 
Woe,  woe!  to-day's  woe  and  coming  morrow's 
I  cover  with  one  groan.     And  where  is  found  me 
A  limit  to  these  sorrows? 


A    PRAYER    TO    ARTEMIS 

And  yet  what  word  do  I  say?    I  have  Iw-ekno^vn 
Clearly  all  things  that  should  be;  nothing  done 
Comes  sudden  to  my  soul — and  I  must  bear 
What  is  ordained  with  patience,  being  aware 
Necessity   doth   front  the  universe 
With  an  invincible  gesture.     Yet  this  curse 
Which  strikes  me  now,  I  find  it  hard  to  brave 
In  silence  or  in  speech.     Because  I  gave 
Honor  to  mortals,  I  have  yoked  my  soul 
To  this  compelling  fate.     Because  I  stole 
The  secret  fount  of  fire,  whose  bubbles  went 
Over  the  ferrule's  brim,  and  manward  sent 
Art's  mighty  means  and  perfect  rudiment, 
That  sin  I  expiate  in  this  agony. 
Hung  here  in  fetters,  'neath  the  blanching  sky. 
Ah,  ah  me !  what  a  sound. 
What  a  fragrance  sweeps  up  from  a  pinion  unseen 
Of  a  god,  or  a  mortal,  or  nature  between, 
Sweeping  up  to  this  rock  where  the  earth  has  he 

bound. 
To  have  sight  of  my  pangs,  or  some  guerdon  obtain^ 
Lo,  a  god  in  the  anguish,  a  god  in  the  chain! 
The  god  Zeus  hateth  sore. 
And  his  gods  hate  again. 
As  many  as  tread  on  his  glorified  floor. 
Because  I  loved  mortals  too  much  evermore. 
Alas  me!  what  a  murmur  and  motion  I  hear. 
As  of  birds  flying  near! 
And  the  air  undersings 
The  light  stroke  of  their  wings — 
And  all  life  that  approaches  I  wait  for  in  fear. 

A    PRAYER    TO    ARTEMIS 

(FTom  MiBS  Swanwick's  Translation  of  "The  Suppliants"? 

STROPHE    IV. 

Though  Zeus  plan  all  things  right, 
Tet  is  his  heart's  desire  full  hard  to  trace; 

25 


/ESCHYLUS 

Nathless  in  every  place 
Brightly  it  gleameth,  e'en  in  darkest  night. 
Fraught  with  black  fate  to  man's  speech-gifted  race. 

AKTISTROPHE   IV. 

steadfast,  ne'er  thrown  in  fight. 
The  deed  in  brow  of  Zeus  to  ripeness  brought; 
For  wrapt  in  shadowy  night, 

Tangled,  unscanned  by  mortal  sight. 
Extend  the  pathways  of  his  secret  thought. 

STROPHE    V. 

From  towering  hopes  mortals  he  hurleth  prone 
To  utter  doom:  but  for  their  fall 
No  force  array eth  he;  for  all 
That  gods  devise  is  without  effort  wrought. 
A  mindful  Spirit  aloft  on  holy  throne 

By  inborn  energj^  achieves  his  thought 

AXTISraOPHE    V. 

But  let  him  mortal  insolence  behold: — 
How  with  proud  contumacy  rife. 
Wantons  the  stem  in  lusty  life 

My  marriage  craving; — frenzy  over-bold. 

Spur  ever-pricking,  goads  them  on  to  late^ 

By  ruin  tau^t  their  folly  all  too  late. 

STROPHE    VI. 

Thus  I  complain,  in  piteous  strain. 

Grief-laden,  tear-evoking,  shrill; 
Ah  woe  is  me!  woe!  woe! 

Dirge-like  it  sounds ;  mine  own  death-trill 
I  pour,  yet  breathing  vital  air. 
Hear,  hill-crowned  Apia,  hear  my  prayer! 

Full  well,  O  land, 
My  voice  barbaric  thou  canst  understand; 

While  oft  with  rendings  I  assail 
My  byssine  vesture  and  Sidonian  veil. 


A    PRAYER    TO    ARTEMIS 
ANTISTROPHE    VI. 

My  nuptial  right  in  Heaven's  pure  sight 
Pollution  were,  death-laden,  rude; 

Ah  woe  is  me !  woe !  woe ! 
Alas  for  sorrow's  murky  brood ! 
Where  will  this  billow  hurl  me?    Where? 
Hear,  hill-crowned  Apia,  hear  my  prayer  J 
Full  well,  O  land. 
My  voice  barbaric  thou  canst  understand; 

While  oft  with  rendings  I  assail 
My  byssine  vesture  and  Sidonian  veil. 

STROPHE    VII. 

The  oar  indeed  and  home  with  sails 
Flax-tissued,  swelled  with  favoring  gales. 
Stanch  to  the  wave,  from  spear-storm  free^ 
Have  to  this  shore  escorted  me. 
Not  so  far  blame  I  destiny. 
But  may  the  all-seeing  Father  send 
In  fitting  time  propitious  end; 
So  our  dread  Mother's  mighty  brood 
The  lordly  couch  may  'scape,  ah  nae, 
Unwedded,  unsubdued! 

AKTISTROPHE    VII. 

Meeting  my  %vill  with  will  divine, 
Daughter  of  Zeus,  who  here  dost  hold 

Steadfast  thy  sacred  shrine — 
Me,  Artemis  unstained,  behold. 
Do  thou,  who  sovereign  might  dost  wield, 
Virgin  thyself,  a  virgin  shield; 
So  our  dread  Mother's  mighty  brood 
The  lordly  couch  may  'scape,  ah  me, 

Unwedded,  unsubdued  I 


27 


iESCHYLUS  j 

THE    VISION    OF    CASSANDRA         ; 

(From  Edward  Htzgerald's  Version  of  "  A-gamemnon  *')  | 

CASSAXDBA.  ' 

Phoebus  Apollo!  ] 

CHORUS. 

Hark!  i 

The  lips  at  last  unlocking.  ] 

CASSAN^DRA. 

Pboebus !    Phoebus  !j 

CHORUS.  I 

Well,  what  of  Phoebus,  maiden?  though  a  name         ; 

"Tis  but  disparagement  to  call  upon 

In  misery.  I 

CASSAN^DRA.  t 

Apollo!    ApoUo!     Again!  " 

Oh,  the  burning  arrow  through  the  brain  I 

Phoebus  Apollo!    Apollo!  i 

CHORUS. 

Seemingly 
Possessed  indeed — whether  by — 

CASSAXDRA. 

Phcebus !     Rioebus ! 
Through  trampled  ashes,  blood,  and  fiery  rain. 
Over  water  seething,  and  behind  the  breathing 
War-horse  in  the  darkness — till  you  rose  again. 
Took  the  helm — took  the  rein — 

CHORUS. 

As  one  that  half  asleep  at  dawn  recalls 
A  Qigbt  of  Hoirror! 


THE    VISION    OF    CASSANDRA 
CASSAXDRA. 

Hither,  whither,  Phoebus?     And  with  whom, 
Leading  me,  lighting  me — 


I  can  answer  that- 

CASSAXDRA. 

Do^Ti  to  what  slaughter-house! 
Foh !  the  smell  of  carnage  through  the  door 
Scares  me  from  it — drags  me  toward  it — 
Phcebus  Apollo !    Apollo ! 


One  of  the  dismal  prophet-pack,  it  seems, 

That  hunt  the  trail  of  blood.     But  here  at  fault— 

This  is  no  den  of  slaughter,  but  the  house 

Of  Agamemnon. 

CASSAXDRA. 

Down  upon  the  towers, 
Phantoms   of  two   mangled   children   hover — and   a 

famished  man, 
\t  an  empty  table  glaring,  seizes  and  devours  I 


'Ihyestes  and  his  children!     Strange  enough 
For  any  maiden  from  abroad  to  know, 
Or,  kno^\ing — 

CASSAXDRA. 

And  look !  in  the  chamber  below 
The  terrible  Woman,  listening,  watchin-g, 
Under  a  mask,  preparing  the  blow 
In  the  fold  of  her  robe — 

29 


^SCHYLUS 


Nay,  but  again  at  fault: 
For  in  the  tragic  story  of  this  House — 
Unless,  indeed  the  fatal  Helen — 
No  woman — 

CASSANDRA. 

No  Woman — Tisiphone!  Daughter 
Of  Tartarus — love-grinning  Woman  above. 
Dragon-tailed  under — honey-tongued.  Harpy- 
clawed, 
Into  the  glittering  meshes  of  slaughter 
She  wheedles,  entices  him  into  the  poisonous 
Fold  of  the  serpent — 


Peace,  mad  woman,  peace! 
Whose  stony  lips  once  open  vomit  out 
Such  uncouth  horrors. 


CASSANDRA. 

I  tell  you  the  lioness 
Slaughters  the  Lion  asleep;  and  lifting 
Her  blood-dripping  fangs  buried  deep  in  his  mane. 
Glaring  about  her  insatiable,  belloAving, 
Bounds  hither — Phoebus  Apollo,  Apollo,  Apollo! 
Whither  have  you  led  me,  under  night  alive  with  fire, 
Through  the  trampled  ashes  of  the  city  of  my  sire. 
From   my   slaughtered   kinsmen,    fallen   throne,   in- 
sulted shrine. 
Slave-like  to  be  butchered,  the  daughter  of  a  royal 
line! 


m 


JESOP 


Msov,  famed  for  his  fables,  flourished  about  600 
I  B.C.  He  was  by  birth  a  Phrygian,  but  for  several 
[  years  he  lived  as  a  slave  in  Greece,  where  his  fame 
:  was  made  as  a  writer.  Invited  by  Croesus,  the 
Lydian  king,  ^Esop  passed  his  last  days  at  the 
I  court  of  that  famous  monarch. 


I     THE    ASS    IN    THE    LION'S    SKIN 

I  AN  Ass,  finding  the  skin  of  a  Lion,  put  it  on; 
f'  X\  and,  going  into  the  woods  and  pastures,  threw 
^  all  the  flocks  and  herds  into  a  terrible  consternation. 
',  At  last,  meeting  his  owner,  he  would  have  frightened 
1  him  also;  but  the  good  man,  seeing  his  long  ears 
i  stick    out,    presently    knew   him,    and    with    a    good 

cudgel  made  him  sensible  that,  notwithstanding  his 
i  being  dressed  in  a  Lion's  skin,  he  was  really  no  more 

than  an  Ass. 


THE    WOLF    IN    SHEEP'S    CLOTHING 

A  WOLF,  clothing  himself  in  the  skin  of  a  sheep, 
and  getting  in  among  the  flock,  by  this  means 
I  took  the  opportunity  to  devour  many  of  them.  At 
Ijlast  the  shepherd  discovered  him,  and  cunningly  fas- 
:  tening  a  rope  about  his  neck,  tied  him  to  a  tree  Avhich 
I  stood  hard  by.  Some  other  shepherds  happening  to 
pass  that  way,  and  observing  what  he  was  about, 
drew  near,  and  expressed  their  admiration  at  it. 
What ! "  says  one  of  them,  "  brother,  do  you  make 
31 


1 

^SOP 


hi  jnging   of   a   sheep  ? "     "  No,"   replied   the   othei 
"  t)ut  I  make  hanging  of  a  Wolf  whenever  I  catdhi  ' 
him,  though  in  the  habit  and  garb  of  a  sheep."   Then  ; 
he  showed  them  their  mistake,  and  they  applauded  \ 
the  justice  of  the  execution.  ' 


THE     COUNTRY    MOUSE     AND     THE 
CITY    MOUSE 

AN  honest,  plain,  sensible  Countrj  Mouse  is  said" 
to  have  entertained  at  his  hole  one  daj  a  fine 
Mouse  of  the  Town.     Having  formerly  been  play 
fellows  together,  they  were  old  acquaintances,  wh' 
served   as   an   apology   for  the  visit.     However, 
master  of  the  house,  he  thought  himself  oblige« 
do  the  honors  of  it  in  all  respects,  and  to  mak 
great  a  stranger  of  his  guest  as  he  possibly  C( 
In  order  to  do  this  he  set  before  him  a  reserv 
delicate  gray  pease  and  bacon,  a  dish  of  fine 
meal,  some  parings  of  new  cheese,  and,  to  crown 
with   a   dessert,   a   remnant   of  a   charming  meli 
apple.     In   good   manners,  he   forebore  to   eat   an^ 
himself,  lest  the  stranger  should  not  have  enough; 
but  that  he  might  seem  to  bear  the  other  company, 
sat  and  nibbled   a  piece  of  a  wheaten  straw  very 
busily.     At  last,  says  the  spark  of  the  town :  "  Old 
crony,  give  me  leave  to  be  a  little  free  with  you: 
how  can  you  bear  to  live  in  this  nasty,  dirxy,  melan- 
choly hole  here,  with  nothing  but  woods,  and  mead- 
ows, and  mountains,   and  rivulets   about  you?     Do 
not  you  prefer  the  conversation  of  the  world  to  the 
chirping  of  birds,  and  the  splendor  of  a  court  to  the 
rude  aspect  of  an  uncultivated  desert?     Come,  take 
my  word  for  it,  you  will  find  it  a  change  for  the 
better.     Never  stand  considering,  but  away  this  mo- 
ment.    Remember,  we  are  not  immortal,  and  there- 
fore have  no  time  to  lose.    Make  sure  of  to-day,  and 
32 


THE    COUNTRY    MOUSE    AND    THE    CITY    MOUSE 

spend  it  as  agreeably  as  you  can :  you  know  not  what 
may  happen  to-morrow."     In  short,  these  and  such 
like  arguments  prevailed,  and  his  Country  Acquain- 
tance was  resolved   to   go  to  town  that   night.     So 
they  both  set  out  upon  their  journey  together,  pro- 
posing to  sneak  in   after  the  close  of  the  evening. 
They  did  so;  and  about  midnight  made  their  entry 
into  a  certain  great  house,  where  there  had  been  an 
extraordinary    entertainment    the    day    before,    and 
several  tit-bits,  which  some  of  the  servants  had  pur- 
loined, were  hid  under  the  seat  of  a  window.     The 
Country  Guest  was  immediately  placed  in  the  midst 
f  a  rich  Persian  carpet:  and  now  it  was  the  Cour- 
r's  turn  to  entertain;  who  indeed  acquitted  him- 
"  in  that  capacity  Mith  the  utmost  readiness  and 
ress,  changing  the  courses  as  elegantly,  and  tast- 
everything  first  as  judiciously,  as  any  clerk  of 
kitchen.    The  other  sat  and  enjoyed  himself  like 
alighted  epicure,  tickled  to  the  last  degree  with 
s  new  turn  of  his  affairs;  when  on  a  sudden,  a 
/ise  of  somebody  opening  the  door  made  them  start 
.,  rom  their  seats  and  scuttle  in  confusion  about  the 
dining-room.    Our  Country  Friend,  in  particular,  was 
ready  to  die  with  fear  at  the  barking  of  a  huge  mas- 
tiff or  two,  which  opened  their  throats  just   about 
the  same  time,  and  made  the  whole  house  echo.     At 
last,  recovering  himself: — "Well,"  says  he,  "if  this 
be  your  town-life,  much  good  may  you  do  with  it: 
give  me  my  poor,  quiet  hole  again,  with  mv  homely 
but  comfortable  gray  pease." 


THE    WOLF    AND    THE    LAMB 

AS  a  Wolf  was  lapping  at  the  head  of  a  running 
brook,  he  spied  a  stray  Lamb  paddHng  at 
some  distance  down  the  stream.  Having  made  up 
his  mind  to  seize  her,  he  bethought  hiraiself  how  he 

TOL.    I 'JL 


might  justify  his  violence.  "  Villain ! "  said  he,  run- 
ning up  to  her,  "  how  dare  you  muddle  the  water  that 
I  am  drinking?  "  "  Indeed,"  said  the  Lamb,  humbly. 
•*  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  disturb  the  water,  since  it 
runs  from  you  to  me,  not  from  me  to  you."  "  Be 
that  as  it  may,"  replied  the  Wolf,  "it  was  but  a 
year  ago  that  you  called  me  ill  names."  "  Oh,  Sir," 
said  the  L-amb,  trembling,  "a  year  ago  I  was  not 
born."  "Well,"  rephed  the  Wolf,  "if  it  was  not 
you,  it  was  your  father,  and  that  is  all  the  same;  but 
it  is  no  use  trying  to  argue  me  out  of  my  supper." 
And  without  another  word  he  fell  upon  the  poor 
helpless  Lamb,  and  tore  her  to  pieces. 


THE    BUNDLE    OF    STICKS 

(Translation  of  James)] 

A  HUSBANDMAN  who  had  a  quarrelsome  fam* 
ily,  after  having  tried  in  vain  to  reconcile  them 
by  words,  thought  he  might  more  readily  prevail  by 
an  example.  So  he  called  his  sons  and  bade  them  lay 
a  bundle  of  sticks  before  him.  Then  having  tied 
them  up  into  a.  fagot,  he  told  the  lads,  one  after 
another,  to  take  it  up  and  break  it.  They  all  tried, 
but  tried  in  vain.  Then,  untying  the  fagot,  he  gave 
them  the  sticks  to  break  one  by  one.  This  they  did 
with  the  greatest  ease.  Then  said  the  father :  "  Thus, 
my  sons,  as  long  as  you  remain  united,  you  are  a 
match  for  all  your  enemies;  but  differ  and  separate^ 
and  you  are  undone" 


m 


I 

THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICH      1 

Tho^ias  Bailey  Aldrich,  poet,  journalist  and 
novelist,  was  born  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  in  1836; 
came  to  New  York  as  a  young  man  and  engaged  in 
business;  while  there  began  writing  for  periodi- 
cals. He  was  editor  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly" 
from  1883  to  1892.  His  best  known  poems  are 
**  The  Bells,"  "  Flower  and  Thorn,"  "  Mercedes," 
and  those  given  below. 

BABY    BELL 

(The  poems  of  T.  B.  Aldrich  are  used  by  permission  of,  and 
hy  special  arrangement  with  Houghton,  Miffin  &  Co.,  publishers.) 


HAVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty   Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 
With   folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes. 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 
Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angeis  go, 
Bearing   the   holy   Dead    to   heaven. 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers — those  feet 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels. 
They   fell   like  dew  upon  the  flowers: 

35 


THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 

Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet. 
And  thus  came  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 

II 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May; 
The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves; 
Like  sunlight,  in  and  out  the  leaves 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell; 
And  on  the  porch  the  slender  vine 
Held  out  its  cups  of  fairy  wine. 
How  tenderly  the  twilights  fell! 
Oh,  earth  was   full  of  singing  birds 
And  opening  springtide  flowers. 
When  the  dainty   Baby   Bell 
Came  to  this  world  of  ours. 

Ill 

O  Baby,  dainty  Baby  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day? 
What  woman  nature  filled  her  eyes. 
What  poetry  within  them  lay — 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes. 
So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more*. 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 
Was  love  so  lovely  born. 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen — 
The  land  beyond  the  morn; 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes. 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Baby  oame  from  Paradise,)—' 

36 


BABY    BELL 

For  love  of  Him  wlio  smote  our  lives. 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 

We  said,  Dear  Christ  ! — our  hearts  bowed  dowi? 

Like  violets  after  rain. 

IV 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 

And  pink  with  blossoms   when  she  came. 

Were    rich    in    autumn's    mellow    prime; 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame. 

The  folded  chestnut  burst  its  shell. 

The  grapes  hung  purpling,  range  on  range* 

And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In   little   Baby   Bell. 

Her  lissome  form  more  perfect   grew. 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace. 

In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face. 

Her  angel  nature  ripened  too: 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came. 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now.  .  .  . 

Around    her   pale,   angelic    brow 

We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame. 

V 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 
We  never  held  her  being's  key; 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things 
Who  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 

vr 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees. 
We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell — • 
The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 
His  messenger  for  Baby  Bell. 

37 


THOMAS    BAILEY    1?2;»RICH 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain. 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears. 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 
Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
"We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod. 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah !  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 
Our  hearts   are  broken.   Baby   Bell! 

VII 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger. 
The  messenger  from  unseen  lands: 
And   what   did   dainty   Baby   Bell? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands. 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and   fair! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow — 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow — 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers  .  , 
And  thus  went  dainty   Baby  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours. 


PRESCIENCE 

THE  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky,  the  sun  was  Ioy* 
in  the  west. 
And  my  betrothed  and  I  in  the  churctiyard  paused 

to  rest: 
Happy   maid   and   lover,   dreaming   the   old   dream 

over : 
The  light  winds  wandered  by,  and  robins  chirped    | 
from  the  nest. 

38 

I 
i 


SWEETHEART,    SIGH    NO    MORE 

'  And  lo !  in  the  meadow  sweet  was  the  grave  of  a  little 

child, 
With  a  crumbling  stone  at  the  feet,  and  the  i\y  run- 
ning wild: 
Tangled  ivy  and  clover  folding  it  over  and  over: 
Close  to  my  sweetheart's  feet  was  the  little  mound 
up-piled. 

Stricken  with  nameless  fears,  she  shrank  and  clung 

to  me, 
-And  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  for  a  sorrow  I 
\  did  not  see: 

Lightly   the  winds   were   blowing,  softly   her  tears 

were  flowing — 
Tears  for  the  unknown  years  and  a  sorrow  that  was 

to  be! 


SWEETHEART,    SIGH    NO    MORE 

IT  was  with  doubt  and  trembling 
I  whispered  in  her  ear. 
Go,  take  her  answer,  bird-on-bough. 
That  all  the  world  may  hear — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more! 

Sing  it,  sing  it,  tawny  throat. 

Upon  the  wayside  tree. 
How  fair  she  is,  how  true  she  is. 

How  dear  she  is  to  me — 

Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more! 

Sing  it,  sing  it,  and  through  the  summer  long 
The  winds  among  the  clover-tops, 

And  brooks,  for  all  their  silvery  stops, 
Shall  envy  you  the  song — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more! 


WILLIAM  ALLTNGHAM 

William  Allixgham,  born  in  Ireland  in  1828| 
died  1889.  He  removed  to  England  and  became 
editor  of  "  Eraser's  Magazine."  He  was  the  author 
of  numerous  poems.  "  Lawrence  Bloomfield  in  Ire- 
land "  and  "  Day  and  Night  Songs "  are  the  best 
Icnown. 

THE    RUINED    CHAPEL 

(From  "Day  and  Night  Songs") 
Y  the  shore,  a  plot  of  ground 


B 


Clips  a  ruined  chapel  round. 
Buttressed  with  a  grassy  mound; 

Where  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  b^ 
And  bring  no  touch  of  human  sound. 

Washing  of  the  lonely  seas. 
Shaking  of  the  guardian  trees. 
Piping  of  the  salted  breeze; 

Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by 
To  the  endless  tune  of  these. 

Or,  when,  as  winds  and  waters  keep 
A  hush  more  dead  than  any  sleep, 
Still  morns  to  stiller  evenings  creep. 

And  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by; 
Here  the  silence  is  most  deep. 

The  empty  ruins,  lapsed  again 

Into  Nature's  wide  domain. 

Sow  themselves  with  seed  and  grain 

As  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by; 
And  hoard  June's  sun  and  April's  rain. 

Here  fresh  funeral  tears  were  shed; 
Now  the  graves  are  also  dead ; 
40 


ROBIN    REDBKifAST 

And  suckers  from  the  ash-tree  spread. 

While  Day  and  Night  and  Daj  go  by; 
And  stars  move  calmly  overhead. 

SONG 

(From  "  Day  and  Night  Songs  ") 

O    SPIRIT  of  the  Summer-time! 
Bring  back  the  roses  to  the  dells; 
The  swallow  from  her  distant  clime. 
The  honey-bee  from  drowsy  cells. 

Bring  back  the  friendship  of  the  sun; 

The  gilded  evenings  calm  and  late. 
When  weary  children  homeward  run, 

And  peeping  stars  bid  lovers  wait. 

Bring  back  the  singing;    and  the  scent 
Of  meadow-lands  at  dewy  prime; 

Oh,  bring  again  my  heart's  content. 
Thou  spirit  of  the  Summer-time  I 

THE    BUBBLE 

(From  "Ballads  and  Songs") 

SEE  the  pretty  planet ! 
Floating  sphere! 
Faintest  breeze  will  fan  it 
Far  or  near; 

World  as  light  as  feather; 

Moonshine  rays, 
Rainbow  tints  together. 

As  it  plays. 


ROBIN    REDBREAST 

GOOD-BYE,  good-bye  to  Summerl 
For  Summer's  nearly  done; 

41 


WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM 

The  garden  smiling  faintly, 

Cool  breezes  in  the  sun; 
Our  thrushes  now  are  silent, 

Our   swallows   flown   away — 
But  Robin's  here  in  coat  of  brown. 

And  scarlet  breast-knot  gay. 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear! 
Robin  sings  so  sweetly 

In  the  falling  of  the  year. 

Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange. 

The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts; 
The  trees  are  Indian  princes, 

But  soon  they'll  turn  to  ghosts; 
The  leathery  pears  and  apples 

Hang  russet  on  the  bough; 
It's  autumn,  autumn,  autumn  late, 

'Twill  soon  be  winter  now. 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear ! 
And  what  will  this  poor  Robin  do? 

For  pinching  days  are  near. 

The  fireside  for  the  cricket. 

The  wheat-stack  for  the  mouse, 
"When  trembling  night-winds  whistle 

And  moan  all  round  the  house. 
The  frosty  ways  like  iron, 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow — 
Alas !   in  winter  dead  and  dark, 

Where  can  poor  Robin  go? 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

O  Robin  dear! 
And  a  crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 

His  little  heart  to  cheer. 


42 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

Hans  Christian  Andersen,  poet,  dramatist  and 
story-writer,  born  at  Odense,  Denmark,  in  1805; 
died  at  Copenhagen  in  18T5.  From  his  early  youth 
he  was  a  maker  of  tales,  and  on  the  banks  of  the 
silver  Odense  River  he  walked  and  dreamed  of  the 
days  of  old,  and  the  famous  days  to  come.  Pri- 
marily a  writer  of  tales  for  children,  his  work 
possesses  such  deep  insight  into  human  nature, 
such  tenderness,  that  the  person  who  has  not  read 
them  has  a  gap  on  the  shelves  of  his  mental 
library.  Before  he  laid  down  his  pen  at  the  close 
of  his  life's  work,  it  took  fifty  volumes  to  contain 
his  writings. 


THE  GARDENER  OF  THE   MANOR 

ABOUT  one  Danish  mile  from  the  capital  stood 
an  old  manor-house,  with  thick  walls,  towers, 
and  pointed  gable-ends.  Here  lived,  but  only  in 
the  summer  season,  a  rich  and  courtly  family.  This 
manor-house  was  the  best  and  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  the  houses  they  owned.  It  looked  outside 
as  if  it  had  just  been  cast  in  a  foundry,  and  within 
vt  was  comfort  itself.  The  family  arms  were  carved 
in  stone  over  the  door;  beautiful  roses  twined  about 
the  arms  and  the  balcony;  a  grass-plot  extended 
before  the  house  with  red-thorn  and  white-thorn, 
and  many  rare  flowers  grew  even  outside  the  con- 
servatory. The  manor  kept  also  a  very  skilful 
gardener.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  see  the  flower- 
garden,  the  orchard,  and  the  kitchen-garden.  There 
was  still  to  be  seen  a  portion  of  the  manor's  original 
43 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 

garden,  a  few  box-tree  hedges  cut  in  shape  of 
crowns  and  pyramids,  and  behind  these  two  mighty 
old  trees  almost  always  without  leaves.  One  might 
always  think  that  a  storm  or  waterspout  had  scat- 
tered great  lumps  of  manure  on  their  branches, 
but  each  lump  was  a  bird's  nest.  A  swarm  of  rooks 
and  crows  from  time  immemorial  had  built  their 
nests  here.  It  was  a  townful  of  birds,  and  the  birds 
were  the  manorial  lords  here.  They  did  not  care 
for  the  proprietors,  the  manor's  oldest  family- 
branch,  nor  for  the  present  owner  of  the  manor — 
these  were  nothing  to  them;  but  they  bore  with  the 
wandering  creatures  below  them,  notwithstanding 
that  once  in  a  while  they  shot  with  guns  in  a  waj- 
that  made  the  birds'  backbones  shiver,  and  made 
every  bird  fly  up,  crying,  "  Rak,  Rak ! " 

The  gardener  very  often  explained  to  the  master 
the  necessity  of  felling  the  old  trees,  as  they  did  not 
look  well,  and  by  taking  them  away  they  would  prob- 
ably also  get  rid  of  the  screaming  birds,  which 
would  seek  another  place.  But  he  never  could  be 
induced  either  to  give  up  the  trees  or  the  swarm 
of  birds:  the  manor  could  not  spare  them,  as  they 
were  relics  of  the  good  old  times,  that  ought  always 
to  be  kept  in  remembrance. 

"  The  trees  are  the  birds'  heritage  by  this  time," 
said  the  master.  "  So  let  them  keep  them,  my  good 
Larsen."  Larsen  was  the  gardener's  name,  but  that 
is  of  very  little  consequence  in  this  story.  "Haven't 
you  room  enough  to  work  in,  little  Larsen.?  Have 
you  not  the  flower-garden,  the  green-houses,  the 
orchard,  and  the  kitchen-garden?"  He  cared  for 
them,  he  kept  them  in  order  and  cultivated  them 
with  zeal  and  ability,  and  the  family  knew  it;  but 
they  did  not  conceal  from  him  that  they  often  tasted 
fruits  and  saw  flowers  in  other  houses  that  sur- 
passed what  he  had  in  his  garden,  and  that  was  a 
Sore  trial  to  the  gardener,  who  always  wished  to  do 


THE    GARDENER    OF    THE    MANOR 

the  best,  and  really  did  the  best  he  could.  He  was 
good-hearted  and  a  faithful  servant. 

The  owner  sent  one  day  for  him,  and  told  him 
kindly  that  the  day  before,  at  a  party  given  by 
some  friends  of  rank,  they  had  eaten  apples  and 
pears  which  were  so  juicy  and  well-flavored  that 
all  the  guests  had  loudly  expressed  their  admiration. 
To  be  sure,  they  were  not  native  fruits,  but  they 
ought  by  all  means  to  be  introduced  here,  and  to  be 
acclimatized  if  possible.  They  learned  that  the  fruit 
was  bought  of  one  of  the  first  fruit-dealers  in  the 
city,  and  the  gardener  was  to  ride  to  town,  and 
find  out  about  where  they  came  from,  and  then 
order  some  slips  for  grafting.  The  gardener  was  very- 
well  acquainted  with  the  dealer,  because  he  was  the 
very  person  to  whom  he  sold  the  fruit  that  grew 
in  the  manor-garden,  beyond  what  was  needed  by 
the  family.  So  the  gardener  went  to  town  and  asked 
the  fruit-dealer  where  he  had  found  those  apples 
and  pears  that  were  praised  so  highly. 

"They  are  from  your  own  garden,"  said  the  frmt- 
dealer,  and  he  showed  him  both  the  apples  and  the 
pears,  which  he  recognized.  Now,  how  happy  the 
gardener  felt !  He  hastened  back  to  his  master, 
and  told  him  that  the  apples  and  pears  were  from 
his  own  garden.     But  he  would  not  believe  it. 

"  It  cannot  be  possible,  Larsen.  Can  you  get  a 
written  certificate  of  that  from  the  fruit-dealer?" 
And  that  he  could;  and  brought  him  a  written 
certificate. 

"  This  is  certainly  wonderful ! "  said  the  family. 

And  now  every  day  were  set  on  the  table  great 
dishes  filled  with  beautiful  apples  and  pears  from 
their  own  garden;  bushels  and  barrels  of  these 
fruits  were  sent  to  friends  in  the  city  and  country 
" — nay,  were  even  sent  abroad.  It  was  exceedingly 
pleasant;  but  when  they  talked  with  the  gardener, 
they  said  that  the  last  two   seasons  had  been  re- 

45 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 

markably  favorable  for  fruits,  and  that  fruits  had 
done  well  all  over  the  country. 

Some  time  passed.  The  family  were  at  dinner  at 
court.  The  next  day  the  gardener  was  sent  for. 
They  had  eaten  melons  at  the  royal  table  which  they 
found  very  j  uicy  and  well-flavored ;  they  came  from 
his  majesty's  green-house. 

"  You  must  go  and  see  the  court-gardener,  and 
let  him  give  you  some  seeds  of  those  melons." 

"  But  the  gardener  at  the  court  got  his  melon- 
seeds  from  us,"  said  the  gardener,  highly  delighted. 

"  But  then  that  man  understands  how  to  bring 
the  fruit  to  a  higher  perfection,"  was  the  answer. 
"Each  particular  melon  was  delicious." 

"  Well,  then,  I  really  may  feel  proud,"  said  the 
gardener.  "  I  must  tell  your  lordship  that  the  gar- 
dener at  the  court  did  not  succeed  very  well  with 
his  melons  this  year,  and  so,  seeing  how  beautiful 
ours  looked,  he  tasted  them,  and  ordered  from  me 
three  of  tb*!m  for  the  castle." 

"  Larsea  do  not  pretend  to  say  that  those  were 
melons  from  our  garden." 

"  Really  I  dare  say  as  much,"  said  the  gardener, 
who  went  to  the  court-gardener  and  got  from  him 
a  writter  certificate  to  the  effect  that  the  melons 
on  the  Toyal  table  were  from  the  manor.  That  was 
certainly  a  great  surprise  to  the  family,  and  they 
did  not  keep  the  story  to  themselves.  Melon  seeds 
were  sent  far  and  wide,  in  the  same  way  as  had  been 
done  with  the  slips,  which  they  were  now  hearing 
had  begun  to  take,  and  to  bear  fruit  of  an  excellent 
kind.  The  fruit  was  named  after  the  manor,  and 
the  name  was  written  in  English,  German  and 
French. 

This  was  something  they  never  had  dreamed  of. 

"We  are  afraid  that  the  gardener  will  come  to 
think  too  much  of  himself,"  said  they;  but  he  looked 
on  it  in  another  way:    what  he  wished  was  to  get 
\G 


THE    GARDENER    OF    THE    MANOR 

the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  best  gardeners 
in  the  country,  and  to  produce  every  year  something 
exquisite  out  of  all  sorts  of  garden  stuff,  and  that 
he  did.  But  he  often  had  to  hear  that  the  fruits 
which  he  first  brought,  the  apples  and  pears,  were 
after  all  the  best.  All  other  kinds  of  fruit  were  in- 
ferior to  these.  The  melons,  too,  were  very  good, 
but  they  belonged  to  quite  another  species.  His 
strawberries  were  very  excellent,  but  by  no  means 
better  than  many  others;  and  when  it  happened  one 
year  that  his  radishes  did  not  succeed,  they  only 
spoke  of  them,  and  not  of  other  good  things  he  had 
made  succeed. 

It  really  seemed  as  if  the  family  felt  some  relief 
in  saying:  "It  won't  turn  out  well  this  year,  little 
Larsen !  "  They  seemed  quite  glad  when  they  could 
say,  "  It  won't  turn  out  well !  " 

The  gardener  used  always  twice  a  week  to  bring 
them  fresh  flowers,  tastefully  arranged,  and  the 
colors  by  his  arrangements  were  brought  out  in 
stronger  light. 

"  You  have  a  good  taste,  Larsen,"  said  the  owner. 
"  But  that  is  a  gift  from  our  Lord,  not  from  your- 
self." 

One  day  the  gardener  brought  a  great  crystal 
vase  with  a  floating  leaf  of  a  white  water-lily,  upon 
which  was  laid,  with  its  long  thick  stalk  descending 
into  the  water,  a  sparkling  blue  flower,  as  large  as  a 
sunflower. 

"  The  sacred  lotos  of  Hindostan ! "  exclaimed  the 
family.  They  had  never  seen  such  a  flower;  it  was 
placed  every  day  in  the  sunshine,  and  in  the  evening 
under  artificial  light.  Every  one  who  saw  it  found 
il  wonderfully  beautiful  and  rare;  and  that  said 
the  most  noble  young  lady  in  the  country,  the  wise 
and  kind-hearted  princess.  The  lord  of  the  manor 
deemed  it  an  honor  to  present  her  with  the  flower, 
and   the   princess   took   it   with   her   to   the   castle. 

47 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 

Now  the  master  of  the  house  went  down  to  the 
garden  to  pluck  another  flower  of  the  same  sort, 
but  he  could  not  find  any.  So  he  sent  for  the  gar- 
dener, and  asked  him  where  he  kept  the  blue  lotos. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  it  in  vain,"  said  he. 
"  I  went  into  the  conservatory,  and  round  about  the 
flower-garden." 

"  No,  it  is  not  there,"  said  the  gardener.  "  It  is 
nothing  else  than  a  common  flower  from  the  kitchen- 
garden,  but  do  you  not  find  it  beautiful?  It  looks 
as  if  it  were  the  blue  cactus,  and  yet  it  is  only  o 
kitchen-herb.    It  is  the  flower  of  the  artichoke.** 

"You  should  have  told  us  that  at  the  time,'* 
said  the  master.  "  We  supposed,  of  course,  that  it 
was  a  strange  and  rare  flower.  You  have  made  liS 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  princess!  She 
saw  the  flower  in  our  house  and  thought  it  beautiful. 
She  did  not  know  the  flower,  and  she  is  versed  in 
botany,  too;  but  then  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
kitchen-herbs.  How  could  you  take  it  into  your 
head,  my  good  Larsen,  to  put  such  a  flower  up  in 
our  drawing-room?     It  makes  us  ridiculous." 

And  the  magnificent  blue  flower  from  the  kitchen- 
garden  was  turned  out  of  the  drawing-room,  which 
was  not  at  all  the  place  for  it.  The  master  made 
his  apology  to  the  princess,  telling  her  that  it  was 
only  a  kitchen-herb  which  the  gardener  had  taken 
into  his  head  to  exhibit,  but  that  he  had  been  well 
njprimanded  for  it. 

"  That  was  a  pity,"  said  the  princess,  "  for  he  has 
really  opened  our  eyes  to  see  the  beauty  of  a  flower 
in  a  place  where  we  should  not  have  thought  of 
looking  for  it.  Our  gardener  shall  every  day,  as 
long  as  the  artichoke  is  in  bloom,  bring  one  of  thera 
up  into  the  drawing-room." 

Then  the  master  told  his  gardener  that  he  might 
again  bring  them  a  fresh  artichoke-flower. 

"  It  is,  after  all,  a  very  nice  flower,"  said  he,  "  and 
48 


THE    GARDE.,  ER    OF    THE    MANOR 

a  truly  remarkable  one."  And  so  the  gardener  was 
praised  again.  "  Larsen  likes  that,"  said  the  mas- 
ter;  "he  is  a  spoiled  child." 

In  the  autumn  there  came  up  a  great  gale,  which 
increased  so  violently  in  the  night  that  several  large 
trees  in  the  outskirts  of  the  wood  were  torn  up  by 
the  roots;  and  to  the  great  grief  of  the  household, 
but  to  the  gardener's  delight,  the  two  big  trees  blev/ 
down,  with  all  their  birds'  nests  on  them.  In  the 
manor-house  they  heard  during  the  storm  the 
screaming  of  rooks  and  crows,  beating  their  wings 
against  the  windows. 

"  Now  I  suppose  you  are  happy,  Larsen,'*  said  the 
master ;  "  the  storm  has  felled  the  trees,  and  the 
birds  have  gone  off  to  the  woods;  there  is  nothing 
left  from  the  good  old  days;  it  is  all  gone,  and  we 
are  very  sorry  for  it." 

The  gardener  said  nothing,  but  he  thought  of 
what  he  long  had  turned  over  in  his  mind,  how  he 
could  make  that  pretty,  sunny  spot  verj^  useful,  so 
that  it  could  become  an  ornament  to  the  garden  and 
a  pride  to  the  family.  The  great  trees  which  had 
been  blown  down  had  shattered  the  venerable  hedge 
of  box,  that  was  cut  into  fanciful  shapes. 

Here  he  set  out  a  multitude  of  plants  that  were 
not  to  be  seen  in  other  gardens.  He  made  an 
earthen  wall,  on  which  he  planted  all  sorts  of  native 
flowers  from  the  fields  and  the  woods.  What  no 
other  gardener  had  ever  thought  of  planting  in  the 
manor-garden  he  planted,  giving  each  its  appropri- 
ate soil,  and  the  plants  were  in  sunlight  or  shadow, 
according  as  each  species  required.  He  cared 
tenderly  for  them,  and  they  grew  up  finely.  The 
juniper-tree  from  the  heaths  of  Jutland  rose  in 
shape  and  color  like  the  Italian  cypress;  the  shining, 
thorny  Christ-thorn,  as  green  in  the  winter's  cold 
as  in  the  summer's  sun,  was  splendid  to  see.  In  the 
foreground  grew  ferns  of  various  species;    some  of 

49 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 

them  looked  as  if  thej  were  children  of  the  palm- 
, tree;  others,  as  if  they  were  parents  of  the  pretty 
plants  called  "  Yenus's  golden  locks  "  or  "  Maiden- 
hair." Here  stood  the  despised  burdock,  which  is  so 
beautiful  in  its  freshness  that  it  looks  well  even  in 
a  bouquet.  The  burdock  stood  in  a  dry  place,  but 
below,  in  the  moist  soil,  grew  the  colt's-foot,  also 
a  despised  plant,  but  yet  most  picturesque,  with  its 
tall  stem  and  large  leaf.  Like  a  candelabrum  with 
a  multitude  of  branches  six  feet  high,  and  with 
flower  over  against  flower,  rose  the  mullein,  a  mere 
field  plant.  Here  stood  the  woodroof  and  the  lily  of 
the  valley,  the  wild  calla  and  the  fine  three-leaved 
wood-sorrel.     It  was  a  wonder  to  see  all  this  beauty. 

In  the  front  grew  in  rows  very  small  pear-trees 
from  French  soil,  trained  on  wires.  By  plenty  of 
sun  and  good  care  they  soon  bore  as  juicy  fruits 
as  in  their  own  country.  Instead  of  the  two  old, 
leafless  trees  was  placed  a  tall  flag-stafi",  where  the 
flag  of  Dannebrog  was  displayed;  and  near-by  stood 
another  pole,  where  the  hop-tendril  in  summer  or 
harvest-time  wound  its  fragrant  flowers;  but  in 
winter  time,  after  ancient  custom,  oat-sheaves  were 
fastened  to  it,  that  the  birds  of  the  air  might  find 
here  a  good  meal  in  the  happy  Christmas-time. 

"  Our  good  Larsen  is  growing  sentimental  as  he 
grows  old,"  said  the  family;  "but  he  is  faithful, 
and  quite  attached  to  us." 

In  one  of  the  illustrated  papers  there  was  a  pic- 
ture at  New  Year's  of  the  old  manor,  with  the  flag- 
staff^ and  the  oat-sheaves  for  the  birds  of  the  air, 
and  the  paper  said  that  the  old  manor  had  preserved 
that  beautiful  old  custom,  and  deserved  great  credit 
for  it. 

"They  beat  the  drum  for  all  Larsen's  doings," 
said  the  family.  "  He  is  a  lucky  fellow,  and  we  may 
almost  be  proud  of  having  such  a  man  in  our 
service." 

&0 


THE    LITTLE    MATCH-GIRL 

But  thej  were  not  a  bit  proud  of  it.  They  were 
rery  well  aware  that  they  were  the  lords  of  the 
manor;  they  could  give  Larsen  warning,  in  fact,  but 
liiey  did  not.  They  were  good  people,  and  fortunate 
tt  is  for  every  Mr.  Larsen  that  there  are  so  many 
good  people  like  them. 

Yes,  that  is  the  story  of  the  Gardener  of  the 
Manor.    Now  you  may  think  a  little  about  it. 


THE    LITTLE    MATCH-GIRL 

IT  was  very  cold,  the  snow  fell,  and  it  was  almost 
quite  dark;  for  it  was  evening — yes,  the  last 
evening  of  the  year.  Amid  the  cold  and  the  dark- 
ness, a  poor  little  girl,  with  bare  head  and  naked 
feet,  was  roaming  through  the  streets.  It  is  true, 
she  had  a  pair  of  slippers  when  she  left  home,  but 
they  were  not  of  much  use.  They  were  very  large 
slippers;  so  large,  indeed,  that  they  had  hitherto 
been  used  by  her  mother;  besides,  the  little  creature 
lost  them  as  she  hurried  across  the  street,  to  avoid 
two  carriages  that  were  driving  very  quickly  past. 
One  of  the  slippers  was  not  to  be  found,  and  the 
the  other  was  pounced  upon  by  a  boy,  who  ran  away 
with  it,  saying  that  it  would  serve  for  a  cradle  when 
he  should  have  children  of  his  own.  So  the  little 
girl  went  along,  with  her  little  bare  feet  that  were 
red  and  blue  with  cold.  She  carried  a  number  of 
matches  in  an  old  apron,  and  she  held  a  bundle  of 
them  in  her  hand.  Nobody  had  bought  anything 
from  her  the  whole  livelong  day;  nobody  had  even 
given  her  a  penny. 

Shivering  with  cold  and  hunger,  she  crept  along, 
a  perfect  picture  of  misery — poor  little  thing!  The 
snow-flakes  covered  her  long,  flaxen  hair,  which  hung 
in  pretty  curls  around  her  throat;  but  she  heeded 
them  not  now.  Lights  were  streaming  from  all  the 
51 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 


windows,  and  there  was  a  savory  smell  of  roast  j 
goose ;  for  it  was  New  Year's  Eve.  And  this  she  did  ; 
heed.  i 

She  now  sat  do^\^l,  cowering  in  a  corner  formed  I 
by  two  houses,  one  of  which  projected  beyond  the  ; 
other.     She  had  drawn  her  little  feet  under  her,  but  \ 
she  felt  colder  than  ever;  yet  she  dared  not  return  ; 
home,  for  she  had  not  sold  a  match,  and  could  not  : 
bring  home  a  penny !    She  would  certainly  be  beaten 
by  her  father;  and  it  was  cold  enough  at  home,  be- 
sides— for  they  had  only  the  roof  above  them,  and 
the  wind  came  howling  through  it,  though  the  largest  ' 
holes  had  been  stopped  with  straw  and  rags.     Her  : 
little  hands  were  nearly  frozen  with  cold.     Alas !  a  \ 
single  match  might  do  her  some  good,  if  she  might 
only  draw  one  out  of  the  bundle,  aj3d  rub  it  against  ' 
the  wall,  and  warm  her  fingers.  - 

So  at  last  she  drew  one  out.  Ah!  how  it  sheds  ' 
sparks,  and  how  it  burns !  It  gave  out  a  warm,  \ 
bright  flame,  like  a  little  candle,  as  she  held  her  hands  : 
over  it — truly  it  was  a  wonderful  little  sight !  It  ; 
really  seemed  to  the  little  girl  as  if  she  were  sitting  ! 
before  a  large  iron  stove,  with  polished  brass  feet,  , 
and  brass  shovel  and  tongs.  The  fire  burned  so  ■ 
brightly,  and  warmed  so  nicely,  that  the  little  creature  I 
stretched  out  her  feet  to  warm  them  likewise,  when 
lo!  the  flame  expired,  the  stove  vanished,  and  left 
nothing  but  the  little  half-burned  match  in  her  hand.  ' 

She  rubbed  another  match   against  the  wall.     It  , 
gave  a  light,  and  where  it  shone  upon  the  wall,  the  j 
latter  became  as  transparent  as  a  veil,  and  she  could  | 
see  into   the   room.     A   snow-white  table-cloth   was 
spread   upon  the  table,  on  which  stood  a  splendid  ! 
china  dinner-service,  while  a  roast  goose  stuffed  with  ) 
apples  and  prunes,  sent  forth  the  most  savory  fumes. 
And  what  was  more  delightful  still  to  see,  the  goose 
jumped  down  from  the  dish,  and  waddled  along  the  i 
ground  with  a  knife  and  fork  in  its  breast,  up  to  the 

52 


THE    LITTLE    MATCH-GIRL 

poor  girl.  The  match  then  went  out,  and  nothing 
remained  but  the  thick,  damp  wall. 

She  lit  yet  another  match.  She  now  sat  under  the 
most  magnificent  Christmas  tree,  that  was  larger, 
and  more  superbly  decked,  than  even  the  one  she 
had  seen  through  the  glass  door  at  the  rich  mer- 
chant's. A  thousand  tapers  burned  on  its  greea 
branches,  and  gay  pictures,  such  as  one  sees  on 
shields,  seemed  to  be  looking  down  upon  her.  She 
stretched  out  her  hands,  but  the  match  then  went 
out.  The  Christmas  lights  kept  rising  higher  and 
higher.  They  now  looked  like  stars  in  the  sky.  One 
of  them  fell  down,  and  left  a  long  streak  of  fire. 
*'  Somebody  is  now  dying,"  thought  the  little  girl— 
for  her  old  grandmother,  the  only  person  who  had 
ever  loved  her,  and  who  was  now  dead,  had  told  her 
that,  when  a  star  falls,  it  is  a  sign  that  a  soul  is 
going  up  to  heaven. 

She  again  rubbed  a  match  upon  the  wall,  and  it 
was  again  light  all  round;  and  in  the  brightness 
stood  her  old  grandmother,  clear  and  shining  like  a 
spirit,  yet  looking  so  mild  and  loving.  "  Grand- 
oiother,"  cried  the  little  one,  "oh,  take  me  with 
you !  I  know  you  will  go  away  when  the  match 
goes  out — you  will  vanish  like  the  warm  stove,  and 
the  delicious  roast  goose,  and  the  fine,  large  Christ- 
mas-tree ! "  And  she  made  haste  to  rub  the  whole 
bundle  of  matches,  for  she  wished  to  hold  her  grand- 
mother fast.  And  the  matches  gave  a  light  that  was 
brighter  than  noonday.  Her  grandmother  had  never 
appeared  so  beautiful  nor  so  large.  She  took  the 
little  girl  in  her  arms,  and  both  flew  upwards,  all 
radiant  and  joyful,  far,  far  above  mortal  ken, 
where  there  was  neither  cold,  nor  hunger,  nor  care 
to  be  found;  where  there  was  no  rain,  no  snow,  or 
stormy  wind,  but  calm,  sunny  days  the  whole  yean 
round. 

But,  in  the  cold  dawn,  the  poor  girl  might  be  seen 

53 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 

leaning  against  the  wall,  with  red  cheeks  and  smiling 
mouth;  she  had  been  frozen  on  the  last  night  of  the 
old  year.  The  new  year's  sun  shone  upon  the  little 
dead  girl.  She  sat  still  holding  the  matches,  one 
bundle  of  which  was  burned.  People  said :  "  She 
tried  to  warm  herself."  Nobody  dreamed  of  the 
fine  things  she  had  seen,  nor  in  what  splendor  she 
had  entered,  along  with  her  grandmother,  upon  the 
joys  of  the  New  Year. 


THE    SHADOW 

IN  the  hot  countries  the  sun  burns  very  strongly; 
there  the  people  become  quite  mahogany  brown, 
and  in  the  very  hottest  countries  they  are  even 
burned  into  negroes.  But  this  time  it  was  only  to  the 
hot  countries  that  a  learned  man  out  of  the  cold 
regions  had  come.  He  thought  he  could  roam  about 
there  just  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do  at  home; 
but  he  soon  altered  his  opinion.  He  and  all  sensible 
people  had  to  remain  at  home,  where  the  window- 
shutters  and  doors  were  shut  all  day  long,  and  it 
looked  as  if  all  the  inmates  were  asleep  or  had  gone 
out.  The  narrow  street  with  the  high  houses  in 
which  he  lived  was,  however,  built  in  such  a  way 
that  the  sun  shone  upon  it  from  morning  till  even- 
ing; it  was  really  quite  unbearable!  The  learned 
man  from  the  cold  regions  was  a  young  man  and  a 
clever  man;  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  sitting  in 
a  glowing  oven  that  exhausted  him  greatly,  and  he 
became  quite  thin;  even  his  Shadow  shriveled  up  and 
became  much  smaller  than  it  had  been  at  home;  the 
sun  even  took  the  Shadow  away,  and  it  did  not  re- 
turn till  the  evening,  when  the  sun  went  down.  It 
was  really  a  pleasure  to  see  this.  As  soon  as  a 
light  was  brought  into  the  room  the  Shadow 
stretched  itself  quite  up  the  wall,  farther  even  than 

54 


THE    SHADOW 

the  ceiling,  so  tall  did  it  make  itself;  it  was  obliged 
to  stretch  to  get  strength  again.  The  learned  man 
went  out  into  the  balcony  to  stretch  himself,  an^ 
as  soon  as  the  stars  came  out  in  the  beautiful  clear 
sky,  he  felt  himself  reviving.  On  all  of  the  bal- 
conies in  the  streets — and  in  the  hot  countries  there 
is  a  balcony  to  every  window — young  people  now 
appeared,  for  one  must  breathe  fresh  air,  even  if  one 
has  got  used  to  becoming  mahogany  brown;  then  it 
became  lively  above  and  below;  the  tinkers  and 
tailors — by  which  we  mean  all  kinds  of  people — sat 
below  in  the  street;  then  tables  and  chairs  were 
brought  out,  and  candles  burned,  yes,  more  than  a 
thousand  candles;  one  talked  and  then  sang,  and 
the  people  walked  to  and  fro;  carriages  drove  past, 
mules  trotted  "  Kling-ling-ling ! "  for  they  had  bells 
on  their  harness;  dead  people  were  buried  with  sol- 
emn songs;  the  church  bells  rang,  and  it  was  in- 
deed very  lively  in  the  street.  Only  in  one  house, 
just  opposite  to  that  in  which  the  learned  man 
dwelt,  it  was  quite  quiet,  and  yet  somebody  lived 
there,  for  there  were  flowers  upon  the  balcony, 
blooming  beautifully  in  the  hot  sun,  and  they  could 
not  have  done  this  if  they  had  not  been  watered,  so 
that  some  one  must  have  watered  them;  therefore, 
there  must  be  people  in  tlmt  house.  Towards  even- 
ing the  door  was  half  opened,  but  it  was  dark,  at 
least  in  the  front  room ;  farther  back,  in  the  interior, 
music  was  heard.  The  strange  learned  man  thought 
this  music  very  lovely,  but  it  was  quite  possible  that 
he  only  imagined  this,  for  out  there  in  the  hot  coun- 
tries he  found  everything  requisite,  if  only  there  had 
been  no  sun.  The  stranger's  landlord  said  that  he 
did  not  know  who  had  taken  the  opposite  house — 
one  saw  nobody  there,  and  so  far  as  the  music  was 
eoncerned,  it  seemed  very  monotonous  to  him. 

"It  was  just,"  he  said,  "as  if  some  one  sat  there, 
always  practicing  a  piece  that  he  could  not  manage 

55 


HANS    CHKISTIAN    ANDE'itJEN 

— always  the  same  piece.  He  seemed  to  say,  *  I  shall 
manage  it,  after  all ; '  but  he  did  not  manage  it,  how- 
ever long  he  played." 

Will  the  stranger  awake  at  night?  He  slept  with 
the  balcony  door  open:  the  wind  lifted  up  the  cur- 
tain before  it,  and  he  fancied  that  a  wonderful  radi- 
ance came  from  the  balcony  of  the  house  opposite' 
all  the  flowers  appeared  like  flames  of  the  most 
gorgeous  colors,  and  in  the  midst,  among  the  flowers, 
stood  a  beautiful  slender  maiden;  it  seemed  as  if  a 
radiance  came  from  her  also.  His  eyes  were  quit^ 
dazzled;  but  he  had  only  opened  them  too  wide  just 
when  he  awoke  out  of  his  sleep.  With  one  leap  he 
was  out  of  bed;  quite  quietly  he  crept  behind  the 
curtain;  but  the  maiden  was  gone,  the  splendor  was 
gone,  the  flowers  gleamed  no  longer,  but  stood  there 
as  beautiful  as  ever.  The  door  was  ajar,  and  from 
within  sounded  music,  so  lovely,  so  charming,  that 
one  fell  into  sweet  thought  at  the  sound.  It  was 
just  like  magic  work.  But  who  lived  there?  Where 
was  the  real  entrance?  for  towards  the  street  and 
towards  the  lane  at  the  side  the  whole  ground  floor 
was  shop  by  shop,  and  the  people  could  not  always 
run  through  there. 

One  evening  the  stranger  sat  upon  his  balcony; 
in  the  room  just  behind  him  a  light  was  burning, 
and  so  it  was  quite  natural  that  his  Shadow  fell 
upon  the  wall  of  the  opposite  house;  yes,  it  sat  just 
among  the  flowers  on  the  balcony,  and  when  the 
stranger  moved  his  Shadow  moved  too. 

"  I  think  my  Shadow  is  the  only  living  thing  we 
see  yonder,"  said  the  learned  man.  "  Look  how 
gracefully  it  sits  among  the  flowers.  The  door  is 
only  ajar,  but  the  Shadow  ought  to  be  sensible 
enough  to  walk  in  and  look  around,  and  then  come 
back  and  tell  me  what  it  has  seen. 

"  Yes,  you  would  thus  make  yourself  very  useful," 
said  he,  as  if  in  sport.    "  Be  so  good  as  to  slip  in. 

S6 


THE   shadow- 
Now,  will  you   go?"     And  then  lie  i/odded   at  the 
Shadow,    and    the    Shadow    nodded    back  at    him. 
"  Now  go,  but  don'  stay  away  altogether." 

And  the  stranger  stood  up,  and  the  Shadow  on 
the  balcony  opposite  stood  up  too,  and  che  stranger 
moyed  around,  and  if  any  one  had  noticed  closely  h# 
would  have  remarked  how  the  Shadow  went  awa) 
in  the  same  moment,  straight  through  the  half- 
opened  door  of  the  opposite  house,  as  the  stranger 
returned  into  his  room  and  let  the  curtain  fall. 

Next  morning  the  learned  man  went  out  to  drink 
coffee  and  read  the  papers. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  he,  when  he  came  out  into 
the  sunshine.  "  I  have  no  Shadow !  So  it  really 
went  away  yesterday  evening,  and  did  not  come 
back;  thai's  very  tiresome." 

And  that  fretted  him,  but  not  so  much  because 
the  Shadow  was  gone  as  because  he  knew  that  there 
was  a  story  of  a  man  without  a  shadow.  All  the 
people  in  the  house  knew  this  story,  and  if  the 
learned  man  came  home  and  told  his  own  history, 
they  would  say  that  it  was  only  an  imitation,  and 
he  did  not  choose  them  to  say  that  of  him.  So  he 
would  not  speak  of  it  at  all,  and  that  was  a  very 
sensible  idea  of  his. 

In  the  evening  he  again  went  out  on  his  balcony; 
he  had  placed  the  light  behind  him,  for  he  knew 
that  a  shadow  always  wants  its  master  for  a  screen, 
but  he  could  not  coax  it  forth.  He  made  himself 
little,  he  made  himself  long,  but  there  was  no 
shadow,  and  no  shadow  came.  He  said,  "  Here, 
here ! "  but  that  did  no  good. 

That  was  vexatious,  but  in  the  warm  countries 
everything  grows  very  quickly,  and  after  the  lapse 
of  a  week  he  remarked  to  his  great  joy  that  a  new 
shadow  was  growing  out  of  his  legs  when  he  went 
into  the  sunshine,  so  that  the  root  must  have  re- 
mained behind.     After  three  weeks  he  had  quite  a 

57 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 

respectable  shadow,  which,  when  he  started  on  his 
return  to  the  North,  grew  more  and  more,  so  that  at 
last  it  was  so  long  and  great  that  he  could  very  well  I 
have  parted  with  half  of  it.  I 

When  the  learned  man  got  home  he  wrote  books  | 
about  what  is  true  in  the  world,  and  what  is  good,  j 
and  what  is  pretty;  and  days  went  by,  and  years  | 
went  by,  many  years. 

He  was  one  evening  sitting  in  his  room  when  there  ' 
came  a  quiet  little  knock  at  the  door.  "  Come  in !  **  j 
said  he ;  but  nobody  came.  Then  he  opened  the  door,  ] 
and  there  stood  before  him  such  a  remarkably  thin  ' 
man  that  he  felt  quite  uncomfortable.  This  man  j 
was,  however,  very  respectably  dressed;  he  looked  j 
like  a  man  of  standing.  I 

"  Whom  have  I  the  honor  to  address  ?  "  asked  the  j 
professor. 

"  Ah ! "  replied  the  genteel  man,  "  I  thought  you 
would  not  know  me;  I  have  become  so  much  a  body 
that  I  have  got  real  flesh  and  clothes.  You  never 
*hought  to  see  me  in  such  a  condition.  Don't  you 
know  your  old  Shadow?  You  certainly  never 
thought  that  I  would  come  again.  Things  have  gone 
remarkably  well  with  me  since  I  was  with  you  last. 
I've  become  rich  in  every  respect:  if  I  want  to  buy 
myself  free  from  servitude  I  can  do  it ! " 

And  he  rattled  a  number  of  valuable  charms, 
irhich  hung  by  his  watch,  and  put  his  hand  upon  the 
thick  gold  chain  he  wore  round  his  neck;  and  how 
the  diamond  rings  glittered  on  his  fingers!  and 
everything  was  real! 

"No,  I  cannot  regain  my  self-possession  at  all!** 
said  the  learned  man.  "What's  the  meaning  of  all 
this?" 

"  Nothing  common,"  said  the  Shadow.  "  But  you 
yourself  don't  belong  to  common  folks;  and  I  have, 
is  you  very  well  know,  trodden  in  your  footsteps 
from  my  childhood  upwards.     As  sooo  as  I  found 

58 


THE    SHADOW 

that  I  was  experienced  enough  to  find  my  way 
through  the  world  alone,  I  went  away.  I  am  in  the 
most  brilliant  circumstances;  but  I  was  seized  with 
a  kind  of  longing  to  see  you  once  more  before  you 
die,  and  I  wanted  to  see  these  regions  once  more, 
for  one  always  holds  by  one's  fatherland.  I  know 
that  you  have  got  another  shadow:  have  I  any- 
thing to  pay  to  it,  or  to  you?  You  have  only  to  tell 
me." 

"  Is  it  really  you  ?  "  said  the  learned  man.  "  Why, 
that  is  wonderful !  I  should  never  have  thought  that 
I  should  ever  meet  my  old  Shadow  as  a  man !  " 

"  Only  tell  me  what  I  have  to  pay,"  said  the 
Shadow,  "  for  I  don't  like  to  be  in  any  one's  debt." 

*'  How  can  you  talk  in  that  way?  "  said  the  learned 
man.  "Of  what  debt  can  there  be  a  question  here? 
You  are  as  free  as  any  one!  I  am  exceedingly 
pleased  at  your  good  fortune!  Sit  down,  old  friend, 
and  tell  me  a  little  how  it  has  happened,  and  what 
you  saw  in  the  warm  countries,  and  in  the  house  op- 
posite ours." 

"Yes,  that  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  Shadow;  and 
it  sat  down.  "  But  then  you  must  promise  me  never 
to  tell  any  one  in  this  town,  when  you  meet  me,  that 
I  have  been  your  Shadow!  I  have  the  intention  of 
engaging  myself  to  be  married;  I  can  do  more  than 
support  a  family." 

"Be  quite  easy,"  replied  the  learned  man;  "I  will 
tell  nobody  who  you  really  are.  Here's  my  hand.  I 
promise  it,  and  my  word's  as  good  as  my  bond." 

"  A  Shadow's  word  in  return ! "  said  the  Shadow, 
for  he  was  obliged  to  talk  in  that  way.  But,  by  the 
way,  it  was  quite  wonderful  how  complete  a  man  he 
had  become.  He  was  dressed  all  in  black,  and  wore 
the  very  finest  black  cloth,  polished  boots,  and  a  hat 
that  could  be  crushed  together  till  it  was  nothing 
but  crown  and  rim,  besides  what  we  have  already 
noticed  of  him,  namely,  the  charms,  the  gold  neck- 

59 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 

chain,  and  the  diamond  rings.  The  Shadow  was  in- 
deed wonderfully  well  clothed;  and  it  was  just  this 
that  made  a  complete  man  of  him. 

"  Now  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  Shadow ;  and  then 
he  put  down  his  polished  boots  as  firmly  as  he  could 
on  the  arm  of  the  learned  man's  new  shadow  that 
lay  like  a  poodle  dog  at  his  feet.  This  was  done 
perhaps  from  pride,  perhaps  so  that  the  new  shadow 
might  stick  to  his  feet;  but  the  prostrate  shadow 
remained  quite  quiet,  so  that  it  might  listen  well,  for 
it  wanted  to  know  how  one  could  get  free  and  work 
up  to  be  one's  own  master. 

"  Do  you  know  who  lived  in  the  house  opposite  to 
us  ?  "  asked  the  Shadow.  "  That  was  the  most  glori- 
ous of  all;  it  was  Poetry!  I  was  there  for  three 
weeks,  and  that  was  just  as  if  one  had  lived  there  a 
thousand  years,  and  could  read  all  that  has  been 
written  and  composed.  For  this  I  say,  and  it  is 
truth,  I  have  seen  everything,  and  I  know  every- 
thing !  ■' 

"  Poetry ! "  cried  the  learned  man.  "  Yes,  she 
often  lives  as  a  hermit  in  great  cities.  Poetry !  Yes, 
I  myself  saw  her  for  one  single  brief  moment,  but 
sleep  was  heavy  on  my  eyes :  she  stood  on  the  balcony, 
gleaming  as  the  Northern  Light  gleams,  flowers  with 
living  flames.  Tell  me !  tell  me !  You  were  upon  the 
balcony.    You  went  through  the  door,  and  then " 

"  Then  I  was  in  the  anteroom,"  said  the  Shadow. 
*'  You  sat  opposite,  and  were  always  looking  across 
at  the  anteroom.  There  was  no  light;  a  kind  of 
semi-obscurity  reigned  there;  but  one  door  after 
another  in  a  whole  row  of  halls  and  rooms  stood 
open,  and  there  it  was  light;  and  the  mass  of  light 
would  have  killed  me  if  I  had  got  as  far  as  to 
where  the  maiden  sat.  But  I  was  deliberate,  I  took 
my  time;  and  that's  what  one  must  do." 

**  And  wha^  did**'  thou  see  then? "  asked  the 
learned  mst. 


THE    SHADOW 

"I  saw  everything,  and  I  will  tell  you  what;  but — 
<t  is  really  not  pride  on  ray  part — as  a  free  man, 
emd  with  the  acquirements  I  possess,  besides  my  good 
position  and  my  remarkable  fortune,  I  wish  you 
would  say  you  to  me." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  learned  man.  This 
thou  is  an  old  habit,  and  old  habits  are  difficult  to 
alter.  You  are  perfectly  right,  and  I  will  remember 
it.     But  now  tell  me  everything  you  saw." 

"  Everything,"  said  the  Shadow ;  "  for  I  saw  every- 
thing, and  I  know  everything." 

"How  did  things  look  in  the  inner  room?"  asked 
the  learned  man.  ''Was  it  there  as  in  a  cool  grave? 
Was  it  there  like  in  a  holy  temple?  Were  the  cham- 
bers like  the  starry  sky,  when  one  stands  on  the 
high  mountains  ?  " 

"  Everything  was  there,"  said  the  Shadow.  "  I 
was  certainly  not  quite  inside;  I  remained  in  the 
front  room,  in  the  half-darkness;  but  I  stood  there 
remarkably  well.  I  saw  everything  and  know  every- 
thing. I  have  been  in  the  anteroom  at  the  Court  of 
Poetry." 

"But  what  did  you  see?  Did  all  the  gods  of  an- 
tiquity march  through  the  halls?  Did  the  old  heroes 
fight  there?  Did  lovely  cliildren  play  there,  and  re- 
late their  dreams?" 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  have  been  there,  and  so  you 
will  easily  understand  that  I  saw  everything  that 
was  to  be  seen.  If  you  had  got  there  you  would  not 
have  remained  a  man;  but  I  became  one,  and  at  the 
same  time  I  learned  to  understand  my  inner 
being  and  the  relation  in  which  I  stood  to  Poetry. 
Yes,  when  I  was  with  you,  I  did  not  think  of 
these  things;  but  you  know  that  wnenever  the  sun 
rises  or  sets  I  am  wonderfully  great.  In  the  moon- 
shine I  was  almost  more  noticeable  than  you  yourself 
I  did  not  then  understand  my  inward  being;  it„ 
Ahe  anteroom  it  was  revealed  to  me.     I  became  a 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN 

man!     I  came  out  ripe.     But  you  were  no  longer 
in  the  warm  countries.     I  was  ashamed  to  go  about 
as   a  man   in  the  state  I   was   then  in:   I   required 
boots,  clothes,  and  all  this  human  varnish  by  which 
«  man  is  known.     I  hid  myself;  yes,  I  can  confide  a 
•ecret  to  you — you  will  not  put  it  into  a  book.     I 
hid    myself    under    the    cake-woman's    gown;    the 
woman  had  no  idea  how  much  she  concealed.     Only 
in  the  evening  did  I  go  out:  I  ran  about  the  streets 
by  moonlight;  I  stretched  myself  quite  long  up  the 
wall:  that  tickled  my  back  quite  agreeably.     I  ran  8 
up  and  down,  looked  through  the  highest  windows  ] 
into  the  halls  and  through  the  roof,  where  nobody  | 
could  see,   and   I   saw  what  nobody  saw  and  what  i 
nobody  ought  to  see.    On  the  whole  it  is  a  bad  world: 
I  should  not  Uke  to  be  a  man  if  I  were  not  allowed 
to  be  of  some  consequence.     I  saw  the  most  incom- 
prehensible    things     going     on     among     men,     and 
women,  and  parents,  and  '  dear  incomparable  chil- 
dren.'   I  saw  what  no  one  else  knows,  but  what  they  ij 
all  would  be  very  glad  to  know,  namely,  bad  goings  i 
on  at  their  neighbors.   If  I  had  written  a  newspaper    ( 
how  it  would  have  been  read!     But  I  wrote  direct}y  I 
to  the  persons  interested,  and  there  was  terror  in  ,! 
every  town  to  which  I  came.     They  were  so  afraid  i 
of  me  that  they  were  remarkably  fond  of  me.     The  |i 
professor  made  me  a  professor;  the  tailor  gave  me  ij 
new  clothes  (I  am  well  provided) ;  the  coining  super-  I 
intendent  coined  money  for  me;  the  women  declared  :\ 
I  was  handsome:  and  thus  I  became  the  man  I  am.  i 
And  now,  farewell!    Here  is  my  card;  I  live  on  the  j 
sunny    side,    and    am    always    at    home    in    rainy  ) 
weather." 

And  the  Shadow  went  away. 


MICHEL  ANGELO 

Michel  Axgelo,  painter,  architect,  sculptor,  and 
poet,  born  at  Caprese,  Italy,  1475;  died,  1564,  at 
Rome.  He  was  undoubtedly  the  greatest  figure  pro- 
duced by  the  Italian  Renaissance  in  the  world  of  art. 
He  wrote  a  number  of  poems  and  a  series  of  let- 
ters that  have  given  him  a  niche  in  the  Temple  of 
Literary  Fame. 

SONNETS    TO    VITTORIA 

(Translated  by  J.  A.  Symonds) 

NOW  on  the  one  foot,  on  the  other  now, 
'Twixt  vice  and  virtue  balancing  below. 
Wearied  and  anxious  in  my  troubled  mind, 
Seeking  where'er  I  may  salvation  find. 
Like  one  to  whom  the  stars  by  clouds  are  crossed  j 
Who,  turn  which  way  he  will,  errs,  and  is  lost. 
Therefore  take  thou  my  heart's  unwritten  page. 
And  write  thou  on  it  what  is  wanted  there; 
And  hold  before  it,  in  life's  daily  stage, 
The  line  of  action  which  it  craves  in  prayer. 
So  that,  amid  the  errors  of  my  youth. 
My  own  shortcomings  may  not  hide  the  truth: 
If  humble  sinners  lower  in  heaven  stood. 
Than  the  proud  doers  of  superfluous  good. 

A^ot  all  unworthy  of  the  boundless  grace 
Which  thou,  most  noble  lady,  hast  bestowed, 
I  fain  at  first  would  pay  the  debt  I  owed. 
And  some  small  gift  for  thy  acceptance  place. 
But  soon  I  felt,  't  is  not  alone  desire 
That  opes  the  way  to  reach  an  aim  so  high; 

63 


MICHEL    ANGELO 

My  rash  pretensions  their  success  deny. 
And  I  grow  wise  while  failing  to  aspire. 
And  well  I  see  how  false  it  were  to  think 
That  an)'^  work,  faded  and  frail,  of  mine, 
Could  emulate  the  perfect  grace  of  thine. 
Genius  and  art  and  daring  backward  shrink; 
A  thousand  works  from  mortals  like  to  me 
Can  ne'er  repay  what  Heaven  has  given  thee ! 

When  godlike  art  has,  with  superior  thought. 
The  limbs  and  motions  in  idea  conceived, 
A  simple  form,  in  humble  clay  achieved, 
Is  the  first  offering  into  being  brought: 
Then  stroke  on  stroke  from  out  the  living  rock 
Its  promised  work  the  practised  chisel  brings. 
And  into  life  a  form  so  graceful  springs. 
That  none  can  fear  for  it  time's  rudest  shock. 
Such  was  my  birth:    in  humble  mould  I  lay 
At  first;  to  be  by  thee,  oh,  lady  high! 
Renewed,  and  to  a  work  more  perfect  brought; 
Thou  giv'st  what  lacking  is,  and  filest  away 
All  roughness :  yet  what  tortuTes  lie. 
Ere  my  wild  heart  can  be  restrained  and  taught  1 


SONNET    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    Vrt> 
TORIA 

WHEN  she,  the  aim  of  every  hope  and  prayer. 
Was  called  by  death  to  yon  celestial  spheres. 
Nature,  who  ne'er  had  fashioned  aught  so  fair. 
Stood  there  ashamed,  and  all  who  saw  shed  tears. 
O  cruel  fate,  quenching  the  dreams  of  love! 
O  empty  hopes !     O  spirit  rare  and  blest ! 
Where  art  thou  now?    On  earth  thy  fair  limbs  rest: 
Thy  holy  thoughts  have  found  their  home  above. 
Vet  let  us  think  not  cruel  death  could  e'er 

64 


ON    DANTE 

Have  stilled  the  sound  of  all  thy  virtuous  ways; 
Lethe's  oblivion  could  extinguish  nought; 
For,  robbed  of  thee,  a  thousand  records  fair 
Speak  of  thee  yet;  and  death  from  heaven  conveys 
ITiy  powers  divine,  and  thy  immortal  thought. 


ON    DANTE 

THERE  is  no  tongue  to  speak  his  eulogy; 
Too  brightly  burned  his  splendor  for  our  eyes; 
Far  easier  to  condemn  his  injurers, 
Than  for  the  tongue  to  reach  his  smallest  worth. 
He  to  the  realms  of  sinfulness  came  down. 
To  teach  mankind ;  ascending  then  to  God, 
Heaven  unbarred  to  him  her  lofty  gates. 
To  whom  his  country  hers  refused  to  ope. 
Ungrateful  land!  to  its  own  injury, 
Nurse  of  his  fate!    Well,  too,  does  this  Instruct 
That  greatest  ills  fall  to  the  perfectest. 
And,  midst  a  thousand  proofs,  let  this  suffice,^ 
That,  as  his  exile  had  no  parallel. 
So  never  was  there  man  more  great  than  he. 


THE  ARABIAN   NIGHTS 

The  Thousaxd  and  One  Nights,  commonly 
called  "The  Arabian  Nights,"  have  now  delighted 
the  Western  World  for  two  hundred  years,  as  they 
have  the  East  for  centuries.  The  various  stories  were 
undoubtedly  the  work  of  many  authors,  combined 
much  in  the  same  way  as  the  Canterbury  Tales  of 
Chaucer.  All  the  color,  the  fascination  of  Oriental 
life,  is  in  them,  and  the  reader  loses  himself  in 
the  oases  of  Arabian  deserts  or  walks  the  streets  of 
Bagdad  in  the  reign  of  Caliph  Harun-al-Rashid. 


THE   FORTY   THIEVES 

THERE  once  lived  in  a  town  of  Persia  two 
brothers,  one  named  Cassim  and  the  other 
Ali  Baba.  Their  father  divided  a  gmall  inheri- 
tance equally  between  them.  Cassim  married  a 
very  rich  wife,  and  became  a  wealthy  merchant. 
Ali  Baba  married  a  woman  as  poor  as  himself,  and 
lived  by  cutting  wood,  and  bringing  it  upon  three 
asses  into  the  town  to  sell. 

One  day,  when  Ali  Baba  was  in  the  forest,  and 
had  just  cut  wood  enough  to  load  his  asses,  he  saw 
at  a  distance  a  great  cloud  of  dust,  which  seemed 
to  approach  him.  He  observed  it  with  attention, 
and  distinguished  soon  after  a  body  of  horsemen, 
whom  he  suspected  might  be  robbers.  He  deter- 
mined to  leave  his  asses  to  save  himself.  He 
climbed  up  a  large  tree,  planted  on  a  high  rock, 
Whose  branches  were  thick  enough  to  conceal  him. 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

and  yet  enabled  him  to  see  all  that  passed  without 
being   discovered. 

The  troop,  who  were  to  the  number  of  forty, 
all  well  mounted  and  armed,  came  to  the  foot  of 
the  rock  on  which  the  tree  stood,  and  there  dis- 
mounted. Every  man  unbridled  his  horse,  tied 
him  to  some  shrub,  and  hung  about  his  neck  a  bag 
of  corn  which  they  brought  behind  them.  Then 
each  of  them  took  off  his  saddle-bag,  which  seemed 
to  Ali  Baba  to  be  full  of  gold  and  silver  from 
its  weight.  One,  whom  he  took  to  be  their  captain, 
came  under  the  tree  in  which  Ali  Baba  was  con- 
cealed, and  making  his  way  through  some  shrubs, 
pronounced  these  words :  "  Open,  Sesame !  "*  As 
soon  as  the  captain  of  the  robbers  had  thus  spoken, 
a  door  opened  in  the  rock;  and  after  he  had  made 
all  his  troop  enter  before  him,  he  followed  them, 
when  the  door  shut  again  of  itself. 

The  robbers  stayed  some  time  within  the  rock, 
during  which  Ali  Baba,  fearful  of  being  caught, 
remained  in  the  tree. 

At  last  the  door  opened  again,  and  as  the  cap- 
tain went  in  last,  so  he  came  out  first,  and  stood 
to  see  them  all  pass  by  him;  when  Ali  Baba  heard 
him  make  the  door  close  by  pronouncing  these 
words,  "Shut,  Sesame!"  Every  man  at  once  went 
and  bridled  his  horse,  fastened  his  wallet,  and 
mounted  again.  When  the  captain  saw  them  all 
ready,  he  put  liimself  at  their  head,  and  they  re- 
turned the  way  they  had  come. 

Ali  Baba  followed  them  with  his  eyes  as  far  as 
he  could  see  them;  and  afterward  stayed  a  con- 
siderable time  before  he  descended.  Remembering 
the  words  the  captain  of  the  robbers  used  to  cause 
the  door  to  open  and  shut,  he  had  the  curiosity  to 
try  if  his  pronouncing  them  would  have  the  same 
effect.  Accordingly,  he  went  among  the  shrubs, 
•  "  Sesame  "  ia  a  small  grain. 
67 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

and  perceiving  the  door  concealed  behind  them, 
stood  before  it,  and  said,  "  Open,  Sesame ! "  The 
door  instantly  flew  wide  open. 

Ali  Baba,  who  expected  a  dark,  dismal  cavern, 
was   surprised   to   see   a   well-lighted   and   spacious 
chamber,  which  received  the  light  from  an  opening 
at  the  top  of  the  rock,  and  in  which  were  all  sorts 
of   provisions,    rich    bales    of    silk,    stuff,    brocade, 
and   valuable   carpeting,   piled    upon    one    another; 
gold  and  silver  ingots  in  great  heaps,  and  money  • 
in  bags.     The  sight  of  all  these  riches  made  him  ; 
suppose  that  this  cave  must  have  been  occupied  for  i 
ages  bj  robbers,  who  had  succeeded  one  another.      I 

Ali  Baba  went  boldly  into  the  cave,  and  col-  i 
lected  as  much  of  the  gold  coin,  which  was  in  bags,  j 
as  he  thought  his  three  asses  could  carry.  When  1 
he  had  loaded  them  with  the  bags,  he  laid  wood  1 
over  them  in  such  a  manner  that  they  could  not  be  j 
seen.  When  he  had  passed  in  and  out  as  often  as  j 
he  wished,  he  stood  before  the  door,  and  pronounc-  ■ 
ing  the  words,  "  Shut,  Sesame !"  the  door  closed  of  I 
itself.     He  then  made  the  best  of  his  way  to  town.  ; 

When  Ali  Baba  got  home,  he  drove  his  asses  into  i 
a  little  yard,  shut  the  gates  very  carefully,  threw  | 
off  the  wood  that  covered  the  panniers,  carried  the  j 
bags  into  his  house,  and  ranged  them  in  order  before  | 
.his  wife.  He  then  emptied  the  bags,  which  raised  I 
such  a  great  heap  of  gold  as  dazzled  his  wife's  eyes,  I 
and  then  he  told  her  the  whole  adventure  from  be-  I 
ginning  to  end,  and,  above  all,  recommended  her  to  | 
keep  it  secret.  I 

The  wife  rejoiced  greatly  at  their  good  fortune,  I 
and  would  count  all  the  gold  piece  by  piece,  il 
"Wife,"  replied  Ali  Baba,  "you  do  not  know  what  li 
you  undertake,  when  you  pretend  to  count  the  li 
money;  you  will  never  have  done.  I  will  dig  a  hole,  3 
and  bury  it.  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost."  "You  » 
are  in  the  right,  husband,"  replied  she,  "  but  let  us  jl 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

know,  as  nigh  as  possible,  how  much  we  have.  I  will 
bcrrow  a  small  measure,  and  measure  it,  while  you 
dig  the  hole." 

Away  the  wife  ran  to  her  brother-in-law  Cassim, 
who  lived  just  bj,  and  addressing  herself  to  his 
wife,  desired  her  to  lend  her  a  measure  for  a  little 
while.  Her  sister-in-law  asked  her  whether  she 
would  have  a  great  or  a  small  one.  The  other  asked 
for  a  small  one.  She  bade  her  stay  a  little,  and  she 
would   readily   fetch  one. 

The  sister-in-law  did  so,  but  as  she  knew  Ali 
Baba's  poverty,  she  was  curious  to  know  what  sort 
of  grain  his  wife  wanted  to  measure,  and  artfully 
putting  some  suet  at  the  bottom  of  the  measure, 
brought  it  to  her,  with  an  excuse  that  she  was  sorry 
that  she  had  made  her  stay  so  long,  but  that  she 
could  not  find  it  sooner. 

Ali  Baba's  wife  \\ent  home,  set  the  measure  upon 
the  heap  of  gold,  filled  it,  and  emptied  it  often  upon 
the  sofa,  till  she  had  done,  when  she  was  very  well 
satisfied  to  find  the  number  of  measures  amounted 
to  so  many  as  they  did,  and  went  to  tell  her  husband, 
who  had  almost  finished  digging  the  hole.  Wliile 
Ali  Baba  was  burying  the  gold,  his  wife,  to  show  her 
exactness  and  diligence  to  her  sister-in-law,  carried 
the  measure  back  again,  but  without  taking  notice 
that  a  piece  of  gold  had  stuck  to  the  bottom.  "  Sis- 
ter," said  she,  giving  it  to  her  again,  "  you  see  that 
I  have  not  kept  your  measure  long.  I  am  obliged 
to  you  for  it,  and  return  it  with  thanks." 

As  soon  as  Ali  Baba's  wife  was  gone,  Cassim's 
looked  at  the  l)ottom  of  the  measure,  and  was  in 
inexpressible  surprise  to  find  a  piece  of  gold  stick- 
ing to  it.  Envy  immediately  possessed  her  breast. 
*'  What !  "  said  she,  "  has  Ali  Baba  gold  so  plentiful 
as  to  measure  it?    Whence  has  he  rdl  this  wealth?" 

Cassim,  her  husband,  was  at  his  countin<i,-house. 
When  he  came  home,  his  wife  said  to  him,  "Cas- 
69 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

sim,  I  know  jou  think  yourself  rich,  but  Ali  Baba 
is  infinitely  richer  than  you.  He  does  not  count 
his  money,  but  measures  it."  Cassim  desired  her 
to  explain  the  riddle,  which  she  did,  by  telling  him 
the  stratagem  she  had  used  to  make  the  discovery, 
and  showed  him  the  piece  of  money,  which  was 
so  old  that  they  could  not  tell  in  what  prince's 
reign  it  was  coined. 

Cassim,  after  he  had  married  the  rich  widow, 
had  never  treated  Ali  Baba  as  a  brother,  but  neg- 
lected him;  and  now,  instead  of  being  pleased,  he 
conceived  a  base  envy  at  his  brother's  prosperity. 
He  could  not  sleep  all  that  night,  and  went  to  hint 
in  the  morning  before  sunrise.  "Ali  Baba,"  said 
he,  "  I  am  surprised  at  you ;  you  pretend  to  be 
miserably  poor,  and  yet  you  measure  gold.  My 
wife  found  this  at  the  bottom  of  the  measure  you 
borrowed  yesterday." 

By  this  discourse,  Ali  Baba  perceived  that  Cas- 
sim and  his  wife,  through  his  own  wife's  folly, 
knew  what  they  had  so  much  reason  to  conceal; 
but  what  was  done,  could  not  be  undone.  There- 
fore, without  showing  the  least  surprise  or  trouble, 
he  confessed  all,  and  offered  his  brother  part  of  his 
treasure  to  keep  the  secret. 

"  I  expect  as  much,"  replied  Cassim,  haughtily, 
**but  I  must  know  exactly  where  this  treasure  is, 
and  how  I  may  visit  it  myself  when  I  choose; 
otherwise,  I  will  go  and  inform  against  you,  and 
then  you  will  not  only  get  no  more,  but  will  lose 
all  you  have,  and  I  shall  have  a  share  for  my  in- 
formation." 

Ali  Baba  told  him  all  he  desired,  even  to  the  very 
words  he  was  to  use  to  gain  admission  into  the  cave. 

Cassim  rose  the  next  morning  long  before  the  sun, 
and  set  out  for  the  forest  with  ten  mules  bearing 
great  chests,  which  he  designed  to  fill,  and  fol- 
lowed the  road  which  Ali  Baba  had  pointed  out  t* 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

him.  He  was  not  long  before  he  reached  the  rock, 
and  found  out  the  place,  hj  the  tree  and  other 
marks  which  his  brother  had  given  him.  ^V'hen  he 
reached  the  entrance  of  the  cavern,  he  pronounced 
the  words,  "  Open,  Sesame ! "  The  door  immedi- 
ately opened,  and,  when  he  was  in,  closed  upon 
him.  In  examining  the  cave,  he  was  in  great  ad- 
miration to  find  much  more  riches  than  he  had  ex- 
pected from  Ali  Baba's  relation.  He  quickly  laid 
as  many  bags  of  gold  as  he  could  carry  at  the  dooi 
of  the  cavern;  but  his  thoughts  were  so  full  of  the 
great  riches  he  should  possess,  that  he  could  not 
think  of  the  necessary  word  to  make  it  open,  but 
instead  of  "Sesame,"  said,  "Open,  BarlejT-!"  and 
was  much  amazed  to  find  that  the  door  remained 
fast  shut.  He  named  several  sorts  of  grain,  but 
still  the  door  would  not  open. 

Cassim  had  never  expected  such  an  incident,  and 
was  so  alarmed  at  the  danger  he  was  in,  that  the 
more  he  endeavored  to  remember  the  word  "  Se- 
same," the  more  his  memory  was  confounded,  and 
he  had  as  much  forgotten  it  as  if  he  had  never 
heard  it  mentioned.  He  threw  down  the  bags  he 
had  loaded  himself  with,  and  walked  distractedly 
up  and  down  the  cave,  without  having  the  least 
regard  to  the  riches  that  were  round  him. 

About  noon  the  robbers  visited  their  cave.  At 
some  distance  they  saw  Cassim's  mules  straggling 
about  the  rock,  with  great  chests  on  their  backs. 
Alarmed  at  this,  they  galloped  full  speed  to  the 
cave.  They  drove  away  the  mules,  who  strayed 
through  the  forest  so  far,  that  they  were  soon  out 
of  sight,  and  went  directly,  with  their  naked  sabers 
in  their  hands,  to  the  door,  which,  on  their  captain 
pronouncing  the  proper  words,  immediately  opened. 

Cassim,  who  heard  the  noise  of  the  horses'  feet, 
at  once  guessed  the  arrival  of  the  robbers,  and 
resolved  to  make  one  effort  for  his  life.    He  rushed 

71   . 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

to  the  door,  and  no  sooner  saw  the  door  open,  than 
he  ran  out  and  threw  the  leader  down,  but  could 
not  escape  the  other  robbers,  who  with  their  scimi- 
tars soon  deprived  him  of  life. 

The  first  care  of  the  robbers  after  this  was  to 
examine  the  cave.  They  found  all  the  bags  which 
Cassim  had  brought  to  the  door,  to  be  ready  to 
load  his  mules,  and  carried  them  again  to  their 
places,  but  they  did  not  miss  what  Ali  Baba  had 
taken  away  before.  Then  holding  a  council,  and 
deliberating  upon  this  occurrence,  they  guessed  that 
Cassim,  when  he  was  in,  could  not  get  out  again, 
but  could  not  imagine  how  he  had  learned  the 
secret  words  by  which  alone  he  could  enter.  They 
could  not  deny  the  fact  of  his  being  there;  and  to 
terrify  any  person  or  accomplice  who  should  at- 
tempt the  same  thing,  they  agreed  to  cut  Cassim's 
body  into  four  quarters — to  hang  two  on  one  side, 
and  two  on  the  other,  within  the  door  of  the  cave. 
They  had  no  sooner  taken  this  resolution  than  they 
put  it  in  execution;  and  when  they  had  nothing 
more  to  detain  them,  left  the  place  of  their  hoards 
well  closed.  They  mounted  their  horses,  went  to 
beat  the  roads  again,  and  to  attack  the  caravans 
they  might  meet. 

In  the  mean  time,  Cassim's  wife  was  very  uneasy 
when  night  came,  and  her  husband  was  not  re- 
turned. She  ran  to  Ali  Baba  in  great  alarm,  and 
said,  "  I  believe,  brother-in-law,  that  you  know 
Cassim  is  gone  to  the  forest,  and  upon  what  ac 
count;  it  is  now  night,  and  he  has  not  returned;  1 
am  afraid  some  misfortune  has  happened  to  him 
Ali  Baba  told  her  that  she  need  not  frighten  he  - 
self,  for  that  certainly  Cassim  would  not  thinl»-  r 
proper  to  come  into  the  town  till  the  night  3hou,vi 
be  pretty   far   advanced. 

Cassim's  wife,  considering  how  much  it  con- 
«5*wnecl   her   husband    to   keep   the   busine^^   secret, 

72 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

was  the  more  casilj  persuaded  to  believe  her 
brother-in-law.  She  went  home  again,  and  waited 
patiently  till  midnight.  Then  her  fear  redoubled, 
and  her  grief  was  the  more  sensible  because  she 
was  forced  to  keep  it  to  herself.  She  repented  of 
her  foolish  curiosity,  and  cursed  her  desire  of  pry- 
ing into  the  affairs  of  her  brother  and  sister-in-law. 
She  spent  all  the  night  in  weeping;  and  as  soon  as 
it  was  day  went  to  them,  telling  them,  by  her  tears, 
the  cause  of  her  coming. 

Ali  Baba  did  not  wait  for  his  sister-in-law  to 
desire  him  to  go  to  see  what  was  become  of  Cas- 
sim,  but  departed  immediately  with  his  three  asses, 
begging  of  her  first  to  moderate  her  affliction.  He 
went  to  the  forest,  and  when  he  came  near  the  rock, 
having  seen  neither  his  brother  nor  the  mules  in 
his  way,  was  seriously  alarmed  at  finding  some 
blood  spilt  near  the  door,  which  he  took  for  an  ill 
omen;  but  when  he  had  pronounced  the  word,  and 
the  door  had  opened,  he  was  struck  with  horror  at 
the  dismal  sight  of  his  brother's  body.  He  was 
not  long  in  determining  how  he  should  pay  the  last 
dues  to  his  brother;  but  without  adverting  to  the 
little  fraternal  affection  he  had  shown  for  him, 
went  into  the  cave  to  find  something  to  enshroud 
his  remains;  and  having  loaded  one  of  his  asses 
with  them,  covered  them  over  with  wood.  The  other 
two  asses  he  loaded  with  bags  of  gold,  covering 
them  with  wood  also  as  before;  and  then  bidding 
the  door  shut,  came  away;  but  was  so  cautious  as 
to  stop  some  time  at  the  end  of  the  forest,  that  he 
might  not  go  into  the  town  before  night.  When 
he  came  home,  he  drove  the  two  asses  loaded  with 
gold  into  his  little  yard,  and  left  the  care  of  unload- 
ing them  to  his  wife,  while  he  led  the  other  to  his 
sister-in-law's  house. 

Ali  Baba  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened 
by   Morgiana,  a   clever,  intelligent  slave,   who   was 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

fruitful  in  inventions  to  meet  the  most  diflBcult 
circumstances.  When  he  came  into  the  court,  he 
unloaded  the  ass,  and  taking  Morgiana  aside,  said 
to  her,  "  You  must  observe  an  inviolable  secrecy. 
Your  master's  body  is  contained  in  these  two  pan- 
niers. We  must  bury  him  as  if  he  had  died  a  nat- 
ural death.  Go  now  and  tell  your  mistress.  I  leave 
the  matter  to  your  wit  and  skilful  devices." 

Ali  Baba  helped  to  place  the  body  in  Cassim's 
house,  again  recommended  to  Morgiana  to  act  her 
part  well,  and  then  returned  with  his  ass. 

Morgiana  went  out  early  the  next  morning  to  a 
druggist,  and  asked  for  a  sort  of  lozenge,  which 
was  considered  eflScacious  in  the  most  dangerous 
disorders.  The  apothecary  inquired  who  was  ill? 
She  replied,  with  a  sigh,  "  Her  good  master  Cassim 
himself:  and  that  he  could  neither  eat  nor  speak." 
In  the  evening  Morgiana  went  to  the  same  drug- 
gist's again,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  asked  for  an 
essence  which  they  used  to  give  to  sick  people  only 
when  at  the  last  extremity.  "  Alas ! "  said  she 
taking  it  from  the  apothecary,  "  I  am  afraid  that 
this  remedy  will  have  no  better  effect  than  the 
lozenges;    and  that  I  shall  lose  my  good  master." 

On  the  other  hand,  as  Ali  Baba  and  his  wife  were 
often  seen  to  go  between  Cassim's  and  their  own 
house  all  that  day,  and  to  seem  melancholy,  nobody 
was  surprised  in  the  evening  to  hear  the  lamentable 
shrieks  and  cries  of  Cassim's  wife  and  Morgiana, 
who  gave  out  everywhere  that  her  master  was  dead. 
The  next  morning  at  daybreak,  Morgiana  went  to 
an  old  cobbler  whom  she  knew  to  be  always  early 
at  his  stall,  and  bidding  him  good-morroWs  put  a 
piece  of  gold  into  his  hand,  saying,  "  Baba  Mus- 
tapha,  you  must  bring  with  you  your  sewing  tackle, 
and  come  with  me;  but  I  must  tell  you,  I  shall 
blindfold  you  when  you  come  to  such  a  place." 

Baba    Mustapha   seemed   to   hesitate    a   little   at 

74 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

these  words.  "  Oh !  oh  !  "  replied  he,  "  you  would 
have  me  do  something  against  mjr  conscience  or 
against  my  honor?"  "God  forbid,"  said  Morgiana, 
putting  anotlier  piece  of  gold  into  his  hand,  "  that 
I  should  ask  anything  that  is  contrary  to  your 
honor !  only  come  along  with  me  and  fear  noth- 
ing." 

Baba  IMustapha  went  with  Morgiana,  who,  after 
she  had  bound  his  eyes  with  a  handkerchief  at  the 
place  she  had  mentioned,  conveyed  him  to  her  de- 
ceased master's  house,  and  never  unloosed  his  eyes 
till  he  had  entered  the  room  where  she  had  put  the 
corpse  together.  "'  Baba  Mustapha,"  said  she,  "  you 
must  make  haste  and  sew  the  parts  of  this  body 
together;  and  when  you  have  done,  I  will  give  you 
another  piece  of  gold." 

After  Baba  Mustapha  had  finished  his  task,  she 
blindfolded  him  again,  gave  him  the  third  piece  of 
gold  as  she  had  promised,  and  recommending  se- 
crecy to  him,  carried  him  back  to  the  place  where 
she  first  bound  his  eyes,  pulled  off  the  bandage, 
and  let  him  go  home,  but  watched  him  that  he  re- 
turned toward  his  stall,  till  he  was  quite  out  of 
sight,  for  fear  he  should  have  the  curiosity  to  re- 
turn and  dodge  her;  she  then  went  home.  Morgi- 
ana, on  her  return,  warmed  some  water  to  wash  the 
body,  and  at  the  same  time  Ali  Baba  perfumed  it 
with  incense,  and  wrapped  it  in  the  burying  clothes 
with  the  accustomed  ceremonies.  Not  long  after 
the  proper  officer  brought  the  bier,  and  when  the 
attendants  of  the  mosque,  whose  business  it  was  to 
wash  the  dead,  offered  to  perform  their  duty,  she 
told  them  that  it  was  done  already.  Shortly  after 
this  the  imaun  and  the  other  ministers  of  the  mosque 
arrived,  P'our  neighbors  carried  the  corpse  to  the 
burying-ground,  following  the  imaun,  who  recited 
some  prayers.  Ali  Baba  came  after  v/ith  some 
neighbors,  who  often  relieved  the  others  in  carrying 

75 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

the  bier  to  the  burying-ground.  Morgiana,  a  slave 
to  the  deceased,  followed  in  the  procession,  weeping, 
beating  her  breast,  and  tearing  her  hair.  Cassim's 
wife  stayed  at  home  mourning,  uttering  lamentable 
cries  with  the  women  of  the  neighborhood,  who 
came,  according  to  custom,  during  the  funeral,  and 
joining  their  lamentations  with  hers  filled  the  quar- 
ter far  and  near  with  sounds  of  sorrow. 

In  this  manner  Cassim's  melancholy  death  was 
concealed  and  hushed  up  between  Ali  Baba,  his 
widow,  and  Morgiana,  his  slave,  with  so  much  con- 
trivance that  nobody  in  the  city  had  the  least  knowl- 
edge or  suspicion  of  the  cause  of  it.  Three  or  four 
days  after  the  funeral,  Ali  Baba  removed  his  few 
goods  openly  to  his  sister-in-law's  house,  in  which 
it  was  agreed  that  he  should  in  future  live;  but  the 
money  he  had  taken  from  the  robbers  he  conveyed 
thither  by  night.  As  for  Cassim's  warehouse,  he 
intrusted  it  to  the  management  of  his   eldest  son. 

While  these  things  were  being  done,  the  forty 
robbers  again  visited  their  retreat  in  the  forest. 
Great,  then,  was  their  surprise  to  find  Cassim's  body 
taken  away,  with  some  of  their  bags  of  gold.  "  We 
are  certainly  discovered,"  said  the  captain.  "  The 
removal  of  the  body,  and  the  loss  of  some  of  our 
money,  plainly  shows  that  the  man  whom  we  killed 
had  an  accomplice:  and  for  our  own  lives'  sake  we 
must  try  and  find  him.    What  say  you,  my  lads? " 

All  the  robbers  unanimously  approved  of  the  cap- 
tain's  proposal. 

"  Well,"  said  the  captain,  "  one  of  you,  the  bold- 
est and  most  skilful  among  you,  must  go  into  the 
town,  disguised  as  a  traveler  and  a  stranger,  to 
try  if  he  can  hear  any  talk  of  the  man  whom  we 
have  killed,  and  endeavor  to  find  out  who  he  was, 
and  where  he  lived.  This  is  a  matter  of  the  first 
importance,  and  for  fear  of  any  treachery,  I  pro- 
pose that  whoever  undertakes  this  business  without 

76 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

success,  even  though  the   failure   arises  only   from 

an  error  of  judgim  nt,  shall  suffer  death." 

I         Without  waiting  for  the  sentiments  of  his  com- 

I     panions,  one  of  the   robbers  started   up,  and  said, 

I     "  I  submit  to  this  condition,  and  think  it  an  honor 

to  expose  my  life  to  serve  the  troop." 

After  this  robber  had  received  great  commenda- 
tions  from  the  captain   and  his  comrades,  he  dis- 
guised himself  so  that  nobodj  would  take  him  for 
what  he  was;  and  taking  his  leave  of  the  troop  that 
]    night,  went  into  the  town  just  at  daybreak;   and 
>    walked  up   and  down,  till  accidentally  he  came  to 
\    Baba  Mustapha's  stall,  which  was  always  open  be- 
I     fore  any  of  the  shops. 

'  Baba  Mustapha  was  seated  with  an  awl  in  his 
hand,  just  going  to  work.  The  robber  saluted  himj 
bidding  him  good-morrow;  and  perceiving  that  he 
was  olCi^  said^  "  Honest  man,  you  begin  to  work 
very  early:  is  it  possible  that  one  of  your  age  can 
see  so  well?  I  question,  even  if  it  wert  somewhat 
lighter,  whether  you  could  see  to  stitch." 

"You  do  not  know  me,"  replied  Baba  Mustapha; 
**  for  old  as  I  am,  I  have  extraordinary  good  eyes ; 
and  you  will  not  doubt  it  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
sewed  the  body  of  a  dead  man  together  in  a  place 
where  I  had  not  so  much  light  as  I  have  now." 

"  A  dead  body ! "  exclaimed  the  robber,  with  af- 
fected amazement.  "  Yes,  yes,"  answered  Baba 
Mustapha,  "  I  see  you  want  to  have  me  speak  out, 
but  you  shall  know  no  more" 

The  robber  felt  sure  that  he  had  discovered  what 
he  sought.  He  pulled  out  a  piece  of  gold,  and  put- 
ting it  into  Baba  Mustapha's  hand,  said  to  him,  "  I 
do  not  want  to  learn  your  secret,  though  1  can 
assure  you.  you  might  safely  trust  me  with  it.  The 
only  thing  I  desire  of  you  is  to  show  me  the  house 
where  you  stitched  up  the  dead  body." 

"  If  I  were  disposed  to  do  you  that  favor,"  re- 
77 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

pMed  Baba  Mustapha,  "I  assure  you  I  cannot.  I 
was  taken  to  a  certain  place,  whence  I  was  led 
blindfold  to  the  house,  and  afterward  brought  back 
again  in  the  same  manner;  you  see,  therefore, 
the  impossibliity  of  my  doing  what  you  desire." 

"Well,"  replied  the  robber,  "you  may,  however, 
remember  a  little  of  the  way  that  you  were  led 
blindfolded.  Come,  let  me  blind  your  eyes  at  the 
same  place.  We  will  walk  together;  perhaps  you 
may  recognize  some  part;  and  as  everybody  ought 
to  be  paid  for  their  trouble,  there  is  another  piece 
of  gold  for  you;  gratify  me  in  what  I  ask  you.'* 
So  saying,  he  put  another  piece  of  gold  into  his  hand. 

The  two  pieces  of  gold  were  great  temptations 
to  Baba  Mustapha.  He  looked  at  them  a  long  time 
in  his  hand,  without  saying  a  word,  but  at  last  he 
pulled  out  his  purse  and  put  them  in.  "  I  cannot 
promise,"  said  he  to  the  robber,  "  that  I  can  re- 
member the  way  exactly;  but  since  you  desire,  I  will 
try  what  I  can  do."  At  these  words  Baba  Mus- 
tapha rose  up,  to  the  great  joy  of  the  robber,  and 
led  him  to  the  place  where  Morgiana  had  bound 
his  eyes.  "  It  was  here,"  said  Baba  Mustapha,  "  I 
was  blindfolded;  and  I  turned  this  way."  The  rob- 
ber tied  his  handkerchief  over  his  eyes,  and  walked 
by  him  till  he  stopped  directly  at  Cassim's  house, 
where  Ali  Baba  then  lived.  The  thief,  before  he 
pulled  off  the  band,  marked  the  door  with  a  piece 
of  chalk,  which  he  had  ready  in  his  hand,  and 
then  asked  him  if  he  knew  whose  house  that  was; 
to  which  Baba  Mustapha  replied,  that  as  he  did  not 
live  in  that  neighborhood,  he  could  not  tell. 

The  robber,  finding  he  could  discover  no  more 
from  Baba  Mustapha,  thanked  him  for  the  trouble 
he  had  taken,  and  left  him  to  go  back  to  his  stall, 
while  he  returned  to  the  forest,  persuaded  that  he 
should  be  very  well  received. 

A  little  after  the  robber  and  Baba  Mustapha  hail 

78 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

parted,  IVIorgiana  went  out  of  Ali  r>i,ba's  house 
upon  some  errand,  and  upon  her  return,  seeing  the 
mark  the  robber  had  made,  stopped  r.n  observe  it. 
"What  can  be  the  meaning  of  thi»  mark?"  said 
she  to  herself;  "somebody  intends  i»iy  master  no 
good;  however,  with  whatever  intention  it  was  done, 
it  is  advisable  to  guard  against  the  worst."  Accord' 
ing,  she  fetched  a  piece  of  chalk,  and  marked  two 
or  three  doors  on  each  side,  in  the  same  manner, 
without  saying  a  word  to  her  master  or  mistress. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  robber  rejoined  his  troop 
in  the  forest,  and  recounted  to  them  his  success; 
expatiating  upon  his  good  fortune,  in  meeting  so 
soon  with  the  only  person  who  could  inform  him 
of  what  he  wanted  to  know.  All  the  robbers  lis- 
tened to  him  with  the  utmost  satisfaction;  when  the 
captain,  after  commending  his  diligence,  addressing 
himself  to  them  all,  said,  "  Comrades,  we  have  no 
time  to  lose :  let  us  set  off  well  armed,  without  its 
appearing  who  we  are;  but  that  we  may  not  excite 
any  suspicion,  let  only  one  or  two  go  into  the  town 
together,  and  join  at  our  rendezvous,  which  shall 
be  the  great  square.  In  the  mean  time,  our  comrade 
who  brought  us  the  good  news  and  I  will  go  and 
find  out  the  house,  that  we  may  consult  what  had 
best  be  done." 

This  speech  and  plan  was  approved  of  by  all, 
and  they  were  soon  ready.  They  filed  off  in  par- 
ties of  two  each,  after  some  interval  of  time,  and 
got  into  the  town  without  being  in  the  least  sus- 
pected. The  captain,  and  he  who  had  visited  the 
town  in  the  morning  as  spy,  came  in  the  last.  He 
led  the  captain  into  the  street  where  he  had  marked 
Ali  Baba's  residence;  and  when  they  came  to  the 
first  of  the  houses  which  Morgiana  had  marked,  he 
pointed  it  out.  But  the  captain  observed  that  the 
next  door  was  chalked  in  the  same  manner,  and  in 
the  same  place;  and  showing  it  to  his  guide,  asleep 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

Ilim  which  house  it  was,  that,  or  the  first.  The 
guide  was  so  confounded,  that  he  knew  not  what 
answer  to  make;  but  still  more  puzzled,  when  he 
and  the  captain  saw  five  or  six  houses  similarly 
marked.  He  assured  the  captain,  with  an  oath,  that 
he  had  marked  but  one,  and  could  not  tell  who  had 
chalked  the  rest,  so  that  he  could  not  distinguish  the 
house  which  the  cobbler  had  stopped  at. 

The  captain,  finding  that  their  design  had  proved 
abortive,  went  directly  to  the  place  of  rendezvous, 
and  told  his  troop  that  they  had  lost  their  labor, 
and  must  return  to  their  cave.  He  himself  set  them 
the  example,  and  they  all  returned  as  they  had 
come. 

When  the  troop  was  all  got  together,  the  captain  \ 
told  them  the  reason  of  their  returning;  and  pres-  , 
ently  the  conductor  was  declared  by  all  worthy  of 
dfeath.  He  condemned  himself,  acknowledging  that 
he  ought  to  have  taken  better  precaution,  and  pre- 
pared to  receive  the  stroke  from  him  who  was  ap- 
pointed to  cut  off  his   head. 

But  as  the  safety  of  the  troop  required  the  dip*  ' 
covery  of  the  second  intruder  into  the  cave,  an-  I 
other  of  the  gang,  who  promised  himself  that  he  I 
should  succeed  better,  presented  himself,  and  his 
offer  being  accepted,  he  went  and  corrupted  Baba  i 
Mustapha,  as  the  other  had  done;  and  being  shown  ' 
the  house,  marked  it  in  a  place  more  remote  from  j 
sight,  with  red  chalk.  \ 

Not  long  after,  Morgiana,  whose  eyes  nothing  \ 
could  escape,  went  out,  and  seeing  the  red  chalk,  i 
and  arguing  with  herself  as  she  had  done  before,  i 
marked  the  other  neighbors'  houses  in  the  same  j 
place  and  manner.  ] 

The  robbe;r,  at  his  return  to  his  company,  valued  , 
himself  much  on  the  precaution  he  had  taken,  which  j 
he  looked  upon  as  an  infallible  way  of  distinguish-  ] 
ing  Ali    Baba's   house    from   the   others;    and    the  | 

8Q  [ 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

captain  and  all  of  them  thought  it  must  succeed. 
They  conveyed  themselves  into  the  town  with  the 
same  precaution  as  before;  but  when  the  robber 
and  his  captain  rame  to  the  street,  they  found  th^ 
same  difficulty;  at  which  the  captain  was  enragea, 
and  the  robber  in  as  great  confusion  as  his  prede- 
cessor. 

Thus  the  captain  and  his  troop  were  forced  to 
retire  a  second  time,  and  much  more  dissatisfied; 
while  the  robber  who  had  been  the  author  of  the 
mistake  underwent  the  same  punishment,  which  he 
^\illingly  submitted  to. 

The  captain,  having  lost  two  brare  fellows  of 
his  troop,  was  afraid  of  diminishing  it  too  much 
by  pursuing  this  plan  to  get  information  of  the 
residence  of  their  plunderer.  He  found  br  their 
example  that  their  heads  were  not  so  good  as  their 
hands  on  such  occasions;  and  therefore  resolved  to 
take  upon  himself  the  important  commission. 

Accordingly,  he  went  and  addressed  himself  to 
Baba  Mustapha,  who  did  him  the  same  service  he 
had  done  to  the  other  robbers.  He  did  not  set  any 
particular  mark  on  the  house,  but  examined  and 
observed  it  so  carefully,  by  passing  often  b/  it, 
that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  mistake  it. 

The  captain,  well  satisfied  with  his  attempt,  and 
informed  of  what  he  wanted  to  know,  returned  to 
the  forest;  and  when  he  came  into  the  cave,  where 
the  troop  waited  for  him,  said,  "  Now,  comrades, 
nothing  can  prevent  our  full  revenge,  as  I  am 
certain  of  the  house;  and  in  my  way  hither  I  have 
thought  how  to  put  it  into  execution,  but  if  any  one 
:ran  form  a  better  expedient,  let  him  communicate 
it."  He  then  told  them  his  contrivance;  and  as 
they  approved  of  it,  ordered  them  to  go  into  the 
villages  about,  and  buy  nineteen  mules,  with  thirty- 
eight  large  leather  jars,  one  full  of  oil,  and  the 
others  empty. 

81 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

In  two  or  three  days'  time  the  robbers  had  pur- 
chased the  mules  and  jars,  and  as  tlie  mouths  of 
the  jars  were  rather  too  narrow  for  his  purpose, 
the  captain  caused  them  to  be  widened,  and  after 
having  put  one  of  his  men  into  each,  with  the  wea- 
pons which  he  thought  lit,  leaving  open  the  seam 
which  had  been  undone  to  leave  them  room  to 
breathe,  he  rubbed  the  jars  on  the  outside  with  oil 
from  the  full  vessel. 

Things  being  thus  prepared,  when  the  nineteen 
mules  were  loaded  with  thirty-seven  robbers  in 
jars,  and  the  jar  of  oil,  the  captain,  as  their  driver, 
set  out  with  them,  and  reached  the  town  by  the 
dusk  of  the  evening,  as  he  had  intended.  He  led 
them  through  the  streets,  till  he  came  to  Ali  Baba's, 
at  whose  door  he  designed  to  have  knocked;  but  was 
prevented  by  his  sitting  there  after  supper  to  take 
a  little  fresh  air.  He  stopped  his  mules,  addressed 
himself  to  him,  and  said,  "  I  have  brought  some  oil 
a  great  way,  to  sell  at  to-morrow's  market;  and  it 
is  now  so  late  that  I  do  not  know  where  to  lodge. 
If  I  should  not  be  troublesome  to  you,  do  me  the 
favor  to  let  me  pass  the  night  with  you,  and  I 
shall  be  very  much  obliged  by  your  hospitality." 

Though  Ali  Baba  had  seen  the  captain  of  the 
robbers  in  the  forest,  and  had  heard  him  speak,  it 
was  impossible  to  know  him  in  the  disguise  of  an 
oil  merchant.  He  told  him  he  should  be  welcome, 
and  immediately  opened  his  gates  for  the  mules  to 
go  into  the  yard.  At  the  same  time  he  called  to  a 
slave,  and  ordered  him,  when  the  mules  were  un- 
loaded, to  put  them  into  the  stable,  and  to  feed 
them;  and  then  went  to  Morgiana,  to  bid  her  get 
a  good  supper  for  his  guest.  After  they  had  fin- 
ished supper,  Ali  Baba,  charging  Morgiana  afresh 
to  take  care  of  his  guest,  said  to  her,  "  To-morrow 
morning  I  design  to  go  to  the  bath  before  day; 
take  care  my  bathing  linen  be  ready,  give  them  to 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

Abdalla  (which  was  the  slave's  name),  and  make 
me  some  good  broth  against  I  return."  After  this 
he  went  to  bed. 

In  the  mean  time  the  captain  of  the  robbers  went 
into  the  yard,  and  took  off  the  lid  of  each  jar,  and 
gave  his  people  orders  what  to  do.  Beginning  at 
the  first  jar,  and  so  on  to  the  last,  he  said  to  each 
man:  "As  soon  as  I  throw  some  stones  out  of  the 
chamber  window  where  I  lie,  do  not  fail  to  come 
out,  and  I  will  immediately  join  you."  After  this 
he  returned  into  the  house,  when  Morgiana,  taking 
up  a  light,  conducted  him  to  his  chamber,  where  she 
left  him;  and  he,  to  avoid  any  suspicion,  put  the 
light  out  soon  after,  and  laid  himself  down  in  his 
clothes,  that  he  might  be  the  more  ready  to  rise. 

jNIorgiana,  remembering  Ali  Baba's  orders,  got 
his  bathing  linen  ready,  and  ordered  Abdalla  tu 
set  on  the  pot  for  the  broth;  but  while  she  was 
preparing  it  the  lamp  went  out,  and  there  was  no 
otiore  oil  in  the  house,  nor  any  candles.  What  to 
do  she  did  not  know,  for  the  broth  must  be  made. 
Abdalla,  seeing  her  very  uneasy,  said,  "Do  not  fret 
and  tease  yourself,  but  go  into  the  yard,  and  take 
some  oil  out  of  one  of  the  jars." 

Morgiana  thanked  Abdalla  for  his  advice,  took 
the  oil-pot,  and  went  into  the  yard;  when,  as  she 
came  nigh  the  first  jar,  the  robber  within  said  softly, 
"Is  it  time?" 

Though  naturally  much  surprised  at  finding  a 
man  in  the  jar  instead  of  the  oil  she  wanted,  she 
immediately  felt  the  importance  of  keeping  silence, 
as  Ali  Baba,  his  family,  and  herself  were  in  great 
danger;  and  collecting  herself,  without  showing  the 
least  emotion,  she  answered,  "  Not  yet,  but  pres- 
ently." She  went  quietly  in  this  manner  to  all  the 
jars,  giving  the  same  answer,  till  she  came  to  the 
jar  of  oil. 

By  this  means  Morgiana  found  that  her  master 

83 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

All  Baba  had  admiited  thirty-eight  robbers  into  his 
house,  and  that  this  pretended  oil  merchant  was 
their  captain.  She  made  what  haste  she  could  to 
fill  her  oil-pot,  and  returned  into  her  kitchen,  where, 
as  soon  as  she  had  lighted  her  lamp,  she  took  a 
great  kettle,  went  again  to  the  oil-jar,  filled  the  ket- 
tle, set  it  on  a  large  wood  fire,  and  as  soon  as  it 
boiled,  went  and  poured  enough  into  every  jar  to 
stifle  and  destroy  the  robber  within. 

When  this  action,  worthy  of  the  courage  of  Mor- 
giana,  was  executed  without  any  noise,  as  she  had 
projected,  she  returned  into  the  kitchen  with  the 
empty  kettle;  and  having  put  out  the  great  fire 
she  had  made  to  boil  the  oil,  and  leaving  just  enough 
to  make  the  broth,  put  out  the  lamp  also,  and  re- 
mained silent,  resolving  not  to  go  to  rest  till  she 
had  observed  what  might  follow  through  a  window 
of  the  kitchen,  which  opened  into  the  yard. 

She  had  not  waited  long  before  the  captain  of 
the  robbers  got  up,  opened  the  window,  and  finding 
no  light,  and  hearing  no  noise,  or  any  one  stirring 
in  the  house,  gave  the  appointed  signal,  by  throwing 
little  stones,   several  of  which  hit  the  jars,  as  he 
doubted  not  by  the  sound  they  gave.     He  then  lis- 
tened, but  not  hearing  or  perceiving  anything  where- 
by he  could  judge  that  his  companions  stirred,  he 
began  to  grow  very  uneasy,  threw  stones  again  a 
second  and  also  a  third  time,  and  could  not  compre- 
hend the  reason  that  none  of  them  should  answer  his 
signal.     Much  alarmed,  he  went  softly  down   into 
the  yard,  and  going  to  the  first  jar,  while  asking    I; 
the   robber,  whom  he   thought   alive,  if  he  was   in    d 
readiness,    smelled   the    hot   boiled    oil,    which   sent    i 
forth  a  steam  out  of  the  jar.     Hence  he  suspected    i 
that  his  plot  to  murder  Ali  Baba,  and  plunder  his    B 
house,  was  discovered.     Examining  all  the  jars,  one    |i 
after  another,  he  found  that  all  his  gang  were  dead;    S 
and,  enraged  to  despair  at  having  failed  in  his  de-    I 

S4  i 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

sign,  he  forced  the  lock  of  a  door  tliat  led  from  the 
yard  to  the  garden,  and  climbing  over  the  walls, 
made  liis  escape. 

When  JNIorgiana  saw  him  depart,  she  went  to  bedj, 
satisfied  and  pleased  to  have  succeeded  so  well  in 
saving  her  master  and  familr. 

Ali  Baba  rose  before  day,  and,  followed  by  his 
slave,  went  to  the  baths,  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
important  event  wliich  had  hapj^ened  at  home. 

When  he  returned  from  the  baths,  he  was  very 
much  surprised  to  see  the  oil-jars,  and  that  the 
merchant  was  not  gone  with  the  mules.  He  asked 
Morgiana,  who  opened  the  door,  the  reason  of  it. 
"  My  good  master,"  answered  she,  "  God  preserve 
you  and  all  of  rour^  family.  You  will  be  better  in- 
formed of  what  you  wish  to  know  when  you  havt 
seen  what  I  have  to  show  you,  if  you  will  follow  me." 

As  soon  as  JNIorgiana  had  shut  the  door,  Ali  Baba 
followed  her,  when  she  requested  him  to  look  into 
the  first  jar,  and  see  if  there  was  any  oil.  Ali  Baba 
did  so,  and  seeing  a  man,  started  back  in  alarm, 
and  cried  out.  "  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  Morgiana, 
"  the  man  you  see  there  can  neither  do  jou  nor 
anybody  else  any  harm.  He  is  dead."  "  Ah,  Morgi- 
ana," said  Ali  Baba,  "what  is  it  you  show  me? 
Explain  yourself."  "  I  will,"  replied  Morgiana. 
"  Moderate  your  astonishment,  and  do  not  excite 
the  curiosity  of  your  neighbors;  for  it  is  of  great 
importance  to  keep  this  affair  secret.  Look  into  all 
the  other  jars." 

Ali  Baba  examined  all  the  other  jars,  one  after 
another;  and  when  he  came  to  that  which  had  the 
oil  in,  found  it  prodigiously  sunk,  and  stood  for 
5ome  time  motionless,  sometimes  looking  at  the  jars? 
attd  sometimes  at  Morgiana,  without  saying  a  word, 
so  great  was  his  surprise.  At  last,  when  he  had  re- 
covered himself,  he  said,  "  And  what  is  become  of 
the  merchant?  " 

85 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

"Merchant!"  answered  she;  "he  is  as  much  one 
as  I  am.  I  will  tell  you  who  he  is,  and  what  is 
become  of  him;  but  you  had  better  hear  the  story 
in  your  own  chamber;  for  it  is  time  for  your  health 
that  you  had  your  broth  after  your  bathing." 

Morgiana  then  told  him  all  she  had  done,  from 
the  first  observing  the  mark  upon  the  house,  to  the 
destruction  of  the   robbers,  and  the  flight  of  the   ! 
captain. 

On  hearing  of  these  brave  deeds  from  the  lips  i 
of  Morgiana,  Ali  Baba  said  to  her — "  God,  by  your  ' 
means,  has  delivered  me  from  the  snares  these  rob-  ■ 
bers  laid  for  my  destruction.  I  owe,  therefore,  my  ■ 
life  to  you;  and,  for  the  first  token  of  my  acknowl-  '| 
edgment,  give  you  your  liberty,  from  this  moment,  j 
till  I  can  complete  your  recompense  as  I  intend."       j 

Ali  B aba's  garden  wa?  very  long,  and  shaded  at  '| 
the  further  end  by  a  great  number  of  large  trees,  j 
Near  these  he  and  the  slave  Abdalla  dug  a  trench,  1 
long  and  wide  enough  to  hold  the  bodies  of  the  rob-  ( 
bers;  and  as  the  earth  was  light,  they  were  not  long 
in  doing  it.     When  this   was   done,  Ali   Baba  hid 
the  jars  and  weapons;  and  as  he  had  no  occasion 
for  the  mules,  he  sent  them  at  different  times  to  be 
sold  in  the  market  by  his  slave. 

While  Ali  Baba  took  these  measures,  the  captain 
of  the  forty  robbers  returned  to  the  forest  with 
inconceivable  mortification.  He  did  not  stay  long; 
the  loneliness  of  the  gloomy  cavern  became  fright- 
ful to  him.  He  determined,  however,  to  avenge  the 
fate  of  his  companions,  and  to  accomplish  the  death 
of  Ali  Baba.  For  this  purpose  he  returned  to  the 
town,  and  took  a  lodging  in  a  khan,  and  disguised 
himself  as  a  merchant  in  silks.  Under  this  assumed 
character,  he  gradually  conveyed  a  great  many  sorts 
of  rich  stuffs  and  fine  linen  to  his  lodging  from  the 
cavern,  but  with  all  the  necessary  precautions  to 
conceal  the  place  whence  he  brought  them.    In  order 


THE    FORTY    THIEVES 

to  dispose  of  the  merchandise,  when  he  had  thus 
amassed  them  together,  he  took  a  warehouse,  which 
happened  to  be  opposite  to  Cassim's,  which  All 
Baba's  son  had  occupied  since  the  death  of  his  uncle. 

He  took  the  name  of  Cogia  Houssain,  and,  as  a 
new-comer,  was,  according  to  custom,  extremelj 
civil  and  complaisant  to  all  the  merchants  his  neigh- 
bors. Ali  Baba's  son  was,  from  his  vicinity,  one  of 
the  first  to  converse  with  Cogia  Houssain,  who 
strove  to  cultivate  his  friendship  more  particularly. 
Two  or  three  days  after  he  was  settled,  Ali  Baba 
came  to  see  his  son,  and  the  captain  of  the  robbers 
recognized  him  at  once,  and  soon  learned  from  his 
son  who  he  was.  After  this  he  increased  his  assidu- 
ities, caressed  him  in  the  most  engaging  manner, 
made  him  some  small  presents,  and  often  asked  him 
to  dine  and  sup  with  him,  when  he  treated  him  very 
handsomely. 

Ali  Baba's  son  did  not  choose  to  lie  under  such 
obligation  to  Cogia  Houssain;  but  was  so  much 
straitened  for  want  of  room  in  his  house,  that  he 
could  not  entertain  him.  Hetherefore  acquainted  his 
father,  Ali  Baba,  with  his  wish  to  invite  him  in  return. 

Ali  Baba  with  great  pleasure  took  the  treat  upon 
himself.  "  Son,"  said  he,  "  to-morrow  being  Friday, 
which  is  a  day  that  the  shops  of  such  great  mer- 
chants as  Cogia  Houssain  and  yourself  are  shut,  get 
him  to  accompany  you,  and  as  you  pass  by  my  door, 
call  in.  I  will  go  and  order  Morgiana  to  provide  a 
supper." 

The  next  day  Ali  Baba's  son  and  Cogia  Houssain 
met  by  appointment,  took  their  walk,  and  as  they 
returned,  Ali  Baba's  son  led  Cogia  Houssain 
through  the  street  where  his  father  lived,  and  when 
they  came  to  the  house,  stopped  and  knocked  at  the 
door.  "  This,  sir,"  said  he,  "is  my  father's  house, 
who,  from  the  account  I  have  given  him  of  your 
friendship,  charged  me  to  procure  him  the  honor  of 

87 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

your  acquaintance;  and  1  desire  you  to  add  thli 
pleasure  to  those  for  which  I  am  already  indebted 
to  you."  I 

Though  it  was  the  sole  aim  of  Cogia  Houssain  to  ' 
introduce  himself  into  Ali  B aba's  house,  that  he  j 
might  kill  him,  without  hazarding  his  own  life  or  i 
making  any  noise,  yet  he  excused  himself,  and  of-  ■ 
fered  to  take  his  leave;  but  a  slave  having  opened  ; 
the  door,  Ali  Baba's  son  took  him  obligingly  by  the  I 
hand,  and,  in  a  manner,  forced  him  in.  \ 

Ali  Baba  received  Cogia  Houssain  with  a  smiling  , 
countenance,  and  in  the  most  obliging  manner  he  ' 
could  wish.  He  thanked  him  for  all  the  favors  he  i 
had  done  his  son;  adding,  withal,  the  obligation  was 
the  greater  as  he  was  a  young  man,  not  much  ac-  , 
quainted  with  the  world,  and  that  he  might  contrib- 
ute to  his  information. 

Cogia  Houssain  returned  the  compliment  by  as-  i 
suring  Ali  Baba,  that  though  his  son  might  no*'  | 
have  acquired  the  experience  of  older  men,  he  ■ 
had  good  sense  equal  to  the  experience  of  many  \ 
others.  After  a  little  more  conversation  on  different  I 
subjects,  he  offered  again  to  take  his  leave,  when  i 
Ali  Baba,  stopping  him,  said,  "  Where  are  you  going,  j 
sir,  in  so  much  haste?  I  beg  you  would  do  me  the  i 
honor  to  sup  with  me,  though  my  entertainment  may  ] 
not  be  worthy  your  acceptance;  such  as  it  is,  I  . 
heartily  offer  it."  "  Sir,"  replied  Cogia  Houssain,  | 
"  1  am  thoroughly  persuaded  of  your  good-will ;  but  ; 
the  truth  is,  I  can  eat  no  victuals  that  have  any  salt  i 
in  them;  therefore  judge  how  I  should  feel  at  your  ! 
table.  "If  that  is  the  only  reason,"  said  Ali  Baba,  | 
"it  ought  not  to  deprive  me  of  the  honor  of  your  ' 
company;  for,  in  the  first  place,  there  is  no  salt  ever 
put  into  my  bread,  and  as  to  the  meat  we  shall  have  : 
to-night,  I  promise  you  there  shall  be  none  in  that,  j 
Tljerefore  you  must  do  me  the  favor  to  stay.  I  will 
return  immediately."  ; 


THE     FORTY    THIEVES 

Ali  Baba  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  ordered  Mor- 
gianu  to  put  no  salt  to  the  meat  that  was  to  be 
dressed  that  night;  and  to  make  quickly  two  or 
three  ragouts  besides  what  he  had  ordered,  but  be 
sure  to  put  no  salt  in  them. 

Morgiana,  who  was  always  ready  to  obey  her  mas- 
ter, could  not  help  being  surprised  at  his  strange 
order.  "  Who  is  this  strange  man,"  said  she,  "  who 
eats  no  salt  with  his  meat?  Your  supper  will  be 
spoiled,  if   I  keep  it  back  so  long."     "  Do  not  be 

i  angry,  Morgiana,"  replied  Ali  Baba;  "he  is  an  hon- 

l  est  man,  therefore  do  as  I  bid  you." 

r      Morgiana  obeyed,  though  with  no  little  reluctance, 

I  and  had  a  curiosity  to  see  tliis  man  who  ate  no  salt. 

'  To  this  end,  when  she  had  finished  what  she  had  to 
do  in  the  kitchen,  she  helped  Abdalla  to  carry  up 
the  dishes;  and  looking  at  Cogia  Houssain,  knew 
hhn  at  first  sight,  notwithstanding  his  disguise,  to 
be  the  captain  of  the  robbers,  and  examining  him 
very  carefully,  perceived  that  he  had  a  dagger  under 
his  garment.  "  I  am  not  in  the  least  amazed,"  said 
she  to  herself,  "  that  this  wicked  man,  who  is  my 
masters'  greatest  enemy,  would  eat  no  salt  with 
him,  since  he  intends  to  assassinate  him;  but  I  will 
prevent  him." 

Morgiana,  while  they  were  at  supper,  determined 
in  her  own  mind  to  execute  one  of  the  boldest  acts 
ever  meditated.  When  Abdalla  came  for  the  dessert 
of  fruit,  and  had  put  it  with  the  wine  and  glasses 
before  Ali  Baba,  Morgiana  retired,  dressed  herself 
neatly,  with  a  suitable  head-dress  like  a  dancer, 
girded  her  waist  with  a  silver-gilt  girdle,  to  which 
there  hung  a  poniard  with  a  hilt  and  guard  of  the 
same  metal,  and  put  a  handsome  mask  on  her  face. 
When  she  had  thus  disguised  herself,  she  said  to 
Abdalla,"  Take  your  tabor,  and  let  us  go  and  divert 
our  master  and  his  son's  friend,  as  we  do  sometimes 
when  he  is  alone." 

89 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

Abdalla  took  his  tabor  and  played  all  the  way  into 
the  hall  before  Morgiana,  who,  when  she  came  to 
the  door,  made  a  low  obeisance  by  way  of  asking 
leave  to  exhibit  her  skill,  while  Abdalla  left  oflf 
playing.  "  Come  in,  Morgiana,"  said  Ali  Baba,  "  and 
let  Cogia  Houssain  see  what  you  can  do,  that  he  may 
tell  us  what  he  thinks  of  your  performance." 

Cogia  Houssain,  who  did  not  expect  this  diversion 
after  supper,  began  to  fear  he  should  not  be  able  to 
take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  he  thought  he 
had  found;  but  hoped,  if  he  now  missed  his  aim,,  to 
secure  it  another  time,  by  keeping  up  a  friendly 
correspondence  with  the  father  and  son;  therefore, 
though  he  could  have  Avished  Ali  Baba  would  have 
declined  the  dance,  he  pretended  to  be  obliged  to 
him  for  it,  and  had  the  complaisance  to  express  his 
satisfaction  at  what  he  saw,  which  pleased  his  host. 

As  soon  as  Abdalla  saw  that  Ali  Baba  and  Cogia 
Houssain  had  done  talking,  he  began  to  plaj'"  on  the 
tabor,  and  accompanied  it  with  an  air,  to  which 
Morgiana,  who  was  an  excellent  performer,  danced 
in  such  a  manner  as  would  have  created  admiration 
in  any  company. 

After  she  had  danced  several  dances  with  much 
grace,  she  drew  the  poniard,  and  holding  it  in  her 
hand,  began  a  dance,  in  which  she  outdid  herself  by 
the  many  different  figures,  light  movements,  and  the 
surprising  leaps  and  wonderful  exertions  with  which 
she  accompanied  it.  Sometimes  she  presented  the 
poniard  to  one  breast,  sometimes  to  another,  and 
sometimes  seemed  to  strike  her  own.  At  last,  she 
snatched  the  tabor  from  Abdalla  with  her  left  hand, 
and  holding  the  dagger  in  her  right  presented  the 
other  side  of  the  tabor,  after  the  manner  of  those 
who  get  a  livelihood  by  dancing,  and  solicit  the  lib- 
erality of  the  spectators. 

Ali  Baba  put  a  piece  of  gold  into  the  tabor,  as  did 
also  his  son ;  and  Cogia  Houssain  seeing  that  she  was 
90 


THK    KORTY    THIEVES 

coming  to  him,  had  pulled  his  purse  out  of  big 
bosom  to  make  her  a  present;  but  while  he  was  put- 
ting his  hand  into  it,  JNIorgiana,  with  a  courage  and 
resolution  worthy  of  herself,  plunged  the  poniard 
into  his  heart, 

Ali  Baba  and  his  son,  shocked  at  this  action,  cried 
out  aloud.  "  Unhappy  woman ! "  exclaimed  Ali 
Baba,  "  what  have  you  done  to  ruin  me  and  my  fam- 
ily?" "It  was  to  preserve,  not  to  ruin  you,"  an- 
swered Morgiana;  "for  see  here,"  continued  she, 
opening  the  pretended  Cogia  Houssain's  garment, 
and  showing  the  dagger,  "  what  an  enemy  you  had 
entertained?  Look  well  at  him,  and  you  will  find 
him  to  be  both  the  fictitious  oil  merchant,  and  the 
captain  of  the  gang  of  forty  robbers.  Remember, 
too,  that  he  would  eat  no  salt  with  you;  and  what 
would  you  have  more  to  persuade  you  of  his  wicked 
design?  Before  I  saw  him,  I  suspected  him  as  soon 
as  you  told  me  you  had  such  a  guest.  I  knew  hira, 
and  you  now  find  that  my  suspicion  was  not  ground- 
less. 

Ali  Baba,  who  immediately  felt  the  new  obligation 
he  had  to  Morgiana  for  saving  his  life  a  second  time, 
embraced  her:  "Morgiana,"  said  he,  "I  gave  you 
your  liberty,  and  then  promised  you  that  my  grati- 
tude should  not  stop  there,  but  that  I  would  soon 
give  you  higher  proofs  of  its  sincerity,  which  I  now 
do  by  making  you  my  daughter-in-law."  Then  ad- 
dressing himself  to  his  son,  he  said,  "  I  believe  you, 
son,  to  be  so  dutiful  a  child,  that  you  will  not  refuse 
Morgiana  for  your  wife.  You  see  that  Cogia  Hou«- 
sain  sought  your  friendship  with  a  treacherous  de- 
sign to  take  away  my  life;  and  if  he  had  succeeded, 
there  is  no  doubt  but  he  would  have  sacrificed  you 
also  to  his  revenge.  Consider,  that  by  marrying 
Morgiana  you  marry  the  preserver  o\'  my  family 
and  your  own." 

The  son,   far  from   showing  any  dislike,  readily 

•1 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

consented  to   the   marriage;    not   only  because   he 
would  not  disobey  his   father,  but  also  because  it 
was   agreeable  to  his  inclination.     After  this  they 
thought  of  burying  the  captain  of  the  robbers  with 
his  comrades,  and  did  it  so  privately  that  nobody 
discovered  their  bones  till  many  years  after,  when  i 
no  one  had  any  concern  in  the  publication  of  this  i 
remarkable   history.      A    few    days    afterward.    All  i 
Baba  celebrated  the  nuptials  of  his  son  and  Mor- 
giana  with  great  solemnity,  a  sumptuous  feast,  and  I 
the  usual  dancing  and  spectacles;  and  had  the  satis-  i 
faction  to  see  that  his  friends  and  neighbors,  whom  I 
he  invited,  had  no  knowledge  of  the  true  motives  of  J 
the  marriage;  but  that  those  who  were  not  unac-  I 
quainted  with  M or gi ana's  good  qualities  commended  1 
his  generosity  and  goodness  of  heart.    Ali  Baba  did  | 
not  visit  the  robber's  cave  for  a  whole  year,  as  he  ! 
supposed  the  other  two.  whom  he  could  get  no  ac- 
count of,  might  be  alive.  | 
At  the  year's  end,  when  he  found  they  had  not  ! 
made  any  attempt  to  disturb  him,  he  had  the  curi- 
osity to  make   another  journey.     He  mounted   his 
horse,  and  when  he  came  to  the  cave  he  alighted, 
tied  his  horse  to  a  tree,  then  approaching  the  en- 
trance,   and    pronouncing    the    words,    "  Open,    Se- 
same ! "  the  door  opened.     He  entered  the  cavern, 
and  by  the  condition  he  found  things  in,  judged  that 
nobody  had  been  there  since  the  captain- had  fetched 
the  goods  for  his  shop.     From  this  time  he  believed 
he  was  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  had  the 
secret  of  opening  the  cave,  and  that  all  the  treasure 
was  at  his  sole  disposal.    He  put  as  much  gold  into 
Ws  saddle-bag  as   his   horse  would  carry,   and   re- 
turned to  town.    Some  years  later  he  carried  his  son 
to  the   cave  and   taught  him  the   secret,  which  he 
handed  down  to  his  posterity,  who,  using  their  good 
fortune  with  moderation,  lived  in  great  honoi  and 
splendor. 

93 


THE    FIRST   VOYAGE    OF   SINDBAD   THE    SAILOR 

THE     FIRST    VOYAGE    OF    SINDBAD 
THE    SAILOR 

MY  father  was  a  wealthy  mercliant  of  much  re- 
pute. He  bequeathed  me  a  large  estate,  which  I 
wasted  in  riotous  living.  I  quickly  perceived  mj 
error,  and  that  I  was  misspending  my  time,  which 
is  of  all  things  most  valuable.  I  remembered  the 
saying  of  the  great  Solomon,  which  I  had  frequently 
heard  from  my  father,  "A  good  name  is  better 
than  precious  ointment,"  and  again,  "  Wisdom  is 
good  with  an  inheritance."  Struck  with  these  reflec- 
tions, I  resolved  to  walk  in  my  father's  ways,  and 
I  entered  into  a  contract  with  some  merchants,  and 
embarked  with  them  on  board  a  ship  we  had  jointly 
fitted  out. 

We  set  sail,  and  steered  our  course  toward  the 
Indies,  through  the  Persia  Gulf,  which  is  formed  by 
the  coasts  of  Arabia  Felix  on  the  right,  and  by  those 
of  Persia  on  the  left.  At  first  I  was  troubled  with 
sea-sickness,  but  speedily  recovered  my  health,  and 
was  not  afterward  subject  to  that  complaint. 

In  our  voyage  we  touched  at  several  islands,  where 
we  sold  or  exchanged  our  goods.  One  day,  while 
under  sail,  we  were  becalmed  near  a  small  island, 
but  little  elevated  above  the  level  of  the  water,  and 
resembling  a  green  meadow.  The  captain  ordered 
his  sails  to  be  furled,  and  permitted  such  persons  as 
were  so  inclined  to  land;  of  this  number  I  was  one. 

But  while  we  were  enjoying  ourselves  in  eating 
and  drinking,  and  recovering  ourselves  from  the  fa- 
tigue of  the  sea,  the  island  on  a  sudden  trembled 
and  shook  us  terribly. 

The  trembling  of  the  island  was  perceived  on 
board  the  ship,  and  we  were  called  upon  to  re-em- 
bark speedily,  or  we  should  all  be  lost;  for  what  we 
took  for  an  island  proved  to  be  the  back  of  a  sea 

93 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

monster.  The  nimblest  got  into  the  sloop,  others 
betook  themselves  to  swimming;  but  as  for  myself, 
I  was  still  upon  the  island  when  it  disappeared  into 
the  sea,  and  I  had  only  time  to  catch  hold  of  a 
piece  of  wood  that  we  had  brought  out  of  the  ship 
to  make  a  fire.  Meanwhile  the  captain,  having  re- 
ceived those  on  board  who  were  in  the  sloop,  and 
taken  up  some  of  those  that  swam,  resolved  to  im- 
prove the  favorable  gale  that  had  just  risen,  and 
hoisting  his  sails  pursued  his  voyage,  so  that  it  was 
impossible  for  me  to  recover  the  ship. 

Thus  was  I  exposed  to  the  mercy  of  the  waves  all 
the  rest  of  the  day  and  the  following  night.  By  this 
time  I  found  my  strength  gone,  and  despaired  of 
saving  my  life,  when  happily  a  wave  threw  me 
against  an  island.  The  bank  was  high  and  rugged; 
so  that  I  could  scarcely  have  got  up  had  it  not  been 
for  some  roots  of  trees  which  1  founA  withirv  reach. 
When  the  sun  arose,  though  I  was  very  feeble,  both 
from  hard  labor  and  want  of  food,  I  crept  along  to 
find  some  herbs  fit  to  eat,  and  had  the  good  luck  not 
only  to  procure  some,  but  likewise  to  discover  a 
stream  of  excellent  water,  which  contributed  much 
to  recover  me.  After  this  I  advanced  farther  into 
the  island,  and  at  least  reached  a  fine  plain,  where  I 
perceived  some  horses  feeding.  I  went  toward  them, 
when  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  man,  who  immediately 
appeared  and  asked  me  who  I  was.  I  related  to  him 
my  adventure,  after  which,  taking  me  by  the  hand, 
iie  led  me  into  a  cave,  where  there  were  several  other 
people,  no  less  amazed  to  see  me  than  I  was  to  see 
them. 

I  partook  of  some  provisions  which  they  offered 
me.  I  then  asked  them  what  they  did  in  such  a 
desert  place;  to  which  they  answered,  that  they 
were  grooms  belonging  to  the  maharaja,  sovereign 
of  the  island,  and  that  every  year  they  brought 
thither  the  king's  horses  for  pasturage.   They  added. 

94 


THE    FIRST   VOYAGE    OF   SINDBAD   THE    SAILOR 

that  they  were  to  return  home  on  the  morrow, 
and  had  I  been  one  day  later,  I  must  have  perished, 
because  the  inhabited  ])art  of  the  island  was  a  great 
distance  off,  and  it  would  lir.ve  been  impossible  for 
me  to  have  got  thither  without  a  guide. 

Next  morning  they  returned  to  the  capital  of  the 
island,  took  me  with  them,  and  presented  me  to  the 
maharaja.  He  asked  me  who  I  was,  and  bj"^  what 
adventure  I  had  come  into  his  dominions.  After  I 
had  satisfied  hira,  he  told  me  he  was  much  con- 
cerned for  my  misfortune,  and  at  the  same  time 
ordered  that  I  should  want  for  nothing;  which  com- 
mands his  officers  were  so  generous  and  careful  as 
to  see  exactly  fulfilled. 

Being  a  merchant,  I  frequented  men  of  my  own 
profession,  and  particularly  inquired  for  those  who 
were  strangers,  that  perchance  I  might  hear  news 
from  Bagdad,  or  find  an  opportunity  to  return. 
For  the  maharaja's  capital  is  situated  on  the  sea- 
coast,  and  has  a  fine  harbor,  where  ships  arrive  daily 
from  the  different  quarters  of  the  world.  I  fre- 
quented also  the  society  of  the  learned  Indians,  and 
took  delight  to  hear  them  converse;  but  withal,  I 
took  care  to  make  my  court  regularly  to  the  maha- 
raja, and  conversed  with  the  governors  and  petty 
kings,  his  tributaries,  that  were  about  him.  They 
put  a  thousand  questions  respecting  my  country; 
and  I,  being  willing  to  inform  myself  as  to  their 
laws  and  customs,  asked  them  concerning  everything 
which  I  thought  worth  knowing. 

There  belongs  to  this  king  an  island  named  Cassel. 
They  assured  me  that  every  night  a  noise  of  drums 
was  heard  there,  whence  the  mariners  fancied  that 
it  was  the  residence  of  Degial.  I  determined  to 
visit  this  wonderful  place,  and  in  my  way  thither 
saw  fishes  of  100  and  200  cubits  long,  that  occasion 
more  fear  than  hurt;  for  they  are  so  timorous,  that 
they   will    fly   upon   the   rattling   of  two   sticks   or 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

boards,     l  saw  likewise  other  l\sh,  about  a  cubit  in 
length,  that  had  heads  like  owls. 

As  I  was  one  day  at  the  port  after  my  return, 
the  ship  irrived  in  which  I  had  embarked  at  Bus- 
sorah.  I  at  once  knew  the  captain,  and  I  went  and 
asked  him  for  my  bales.  "  I  am  Sindbad,"  said  I, 
"  and  those  bales  marked  with  his  name  are  mine." 

When  the  captain  heard  me  speak  thus,  "  Heav- 
ens ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  whom  can  we  trust  in  these 
times !  I  saw  Sindbad  perish  with  my  own  eyes,  as 
did  also  tb«  passengers  on  board,  and  yet  you  tell 
me  you  are  that  Sindbad.  What  impudence  is  this ! 
and  what  a  false  tale  to  tell,  in  order  to  possess 
yourself  of  what  does  not  belong  to  you !  "  "  Have 
patience,"  replied  I ;  "do  me  the  favor  to  hear  what 
I  have  to  say."  The  captain  was  at  length  per- 
suaded that  I  was  no  cheat;  for  there  came  people 
from  his  ship  who  knew  me,  paid  me  great  compli- 
*>ents,  and  expressed  much  joy  at  seeing  me  alive. 
At  last  he  recollected  me  himself,  and  embracing 
me,  "  Heaven  be  praised,"  said  he,  "  for  your  happy 
escape!  I  cannot  express  the  joy  it  affords  me. 
There  are  your  goods ;  take  and  do  with  them  as  you 
please." 

I  took  out  what  was  most  valuable  in  my  bales, 
and  presented  them  to  the  maharaja,  who,  knowing 
my  misfortune,  asked  me  how  I  came  by  such  rari- 
ties. I  acquainted  him  with  the  circumstance  of 
their  recovery.  He  was  pleased  at  my  good  luck, 
accepted  my  present,  and  in  return  gave  me  one 
much  more  considerable.  Upon  this  I  took  leave  of 
him,  and  went  aboard  the  same  ship  after  I  had 
exchanged  my  goods  for  the  commodities  of  that 
country.  I  carried  with  me  wood  of  aloes,  sandals, 
camphor,  nutmegs,  cloves,  pepper,  and  ginger.  We 
passed  by  several  islands,  and  at  last  arrived  at  Bus- 
sorah,  from  whence  I  came  to  this  city,  with  the 
«alue  of  100,000  sequins. 
96 


THE   FIRST  VOYAGE   OF  SINDBAD  THE   SAILOR 

Sindbad  stopped  here,  and  ordered  the  musicians 
to  proceed  with  their  concert,  wliich  the  story  had 
interrupted.  When  it  was  evening,  Sindbad  sent 
for  a  purse  of  100  sequins,  and  giving  it  to  the  por- 
ter, said,  "  Take  this,  Sindbad,  return  to  your  home, 
and  come  back  to-morrow  to  hear  more  of  ray  ad- 
ventures." The  porter  went  away,  astonished  at  the 
honor  done  him,  and  the  present  made  him.  The 
account  of  his  adventure  proved  very  agreeable  to 
his  wife  and  children,  who  did  not  fail  to  return 
thanks  for  what  Providence  had  sent  them  by  the 
hand  of  Sindbad. 


m 


ARISTOPHANES 

Abistophanes,  the  greatest  comic  poet  of  Greece, 
was  born  in  448  b.c.  His  death  occurred  about  380 
B.C.  Of  his  fifty-four  plays  only  eleven  are  extant. 
"The  Knights,"  "The  Birds,"  "The  Clouds"  and 
**  The  Frogs  "  are  best  known  to  the  moderns.  All 
were  attacks  upon  persons  or  public  measures  ob- 
jectionable to  the  poet. 


GRAND    CHORUS    OF    BIRDS 

(From  "The  Birds  "  :  Swinburne's  Translation) 

COME  on  then,  ye  dwellers  by  nature  in  dark- 
ness, and  like  to  the  leaves'  generations. 
That  are  little  of  might,  that  are  molded  of  mire, 

unenduring  and  shadowlike  nations. 
Poor  plumeless  ephemerals,  comfortless  mortals,  as 

visions  of  shadows  fast  fleeing. 
Lift  up  your  mind  unto  us  that  are  deathless,  and 

dateless  the  date  of  our  being; 
Us,  children  of  heaven,  us,  ageless  for  aye,  us,  all  of 

whose  thoughts  are  eternal: 
That  ye  may  from  henceforth,  having  heard  of  us  all 

things  aright  as  to  matters  supernal, 
Of  the  being  of  birds,  and  beginning  of  gods,  and 

of  streams,  and  the  dark  beyond  reaching, 
Trustfully  knowing  aright,  in  my  name  bid  Prodicus 

pack  with  his  preaching! 
It  was  Chaos  and  Night  at  the  first,  and  the  black- 
ness of  darkness,  and  Hell's  broad  border, 
Earth  was   not,   nor   air,   neither   heaven:   when    in 

depths  of  the  womb  of  the  dark  without  order 

98 


GRAND    CHORUS    OF    BIRDS 

First  thing,  first-born  of  the  black-plumed  Night,  was 
a  wind-egg  hatched  in  her  bosom. 

Whence  timely  with  seasons  revolving  again  sweet 
Love  burst  out  as  a  blossom. 

Gold  wings  glittering  forth  of  his  back,  like  whirl- 
winds gustily  turning. 

He,  after  his  wedlock  with  Chaos,  whose  wings  are 
of  darkness,  in  Hell  broad-burning. 

For  his  nestlings  begat  him  the  race  of  us  first,  and 
upraised  us  to  light  new-lighted. 

And  before  this  was  not  the  race  of  the  gods,  until 
all  things  by  Love  were  united: 

And  of  kind  united  in  kind  with  communion  of  na- 
ture the  sky  and  the  sea  are 

Brought  forth,  and  the  earth,  and  the  race  of  the 
gods  everlasting  and  blest.     So  that  we  are 

Far  away  the  most  ancient  of  all  things  blest.  And 
that  we  are  of  Love's  generation 

There  are  manifest  manifold  signs.  We  have  wings, 
and  with  us  have  the  Love's  habitation; 

And  manifold  fair  young  folk  that  forswore  love 
once,  ere  the  bloom  of  them  ended, 

Have  the  men  that  pursued  and  desired  them  sub- 
dued by  the  help  of  us  only  befriended, 

W'ith  such  baits  as  a  quail,  a  flamingo,  a  goose,  or  a 
cock's  comb  staring  and  splendid. 

All  best  good  things  that  befall  men  come  from  us 
birds,  as  is  plain  to  all  reason: 

For  first  we  proclaim  and  make  known  to  them 
spring,  and  the  winter  and  autumn  in  season; 

Bid  sow,  when  the  crane  starts  clanging  for  Afric  in 
shrill-voiced  emigrant  number. 

And  calls  to  the  pilot  to  hang  up  his  rudder  again 
for  the  season  and  slumber; 

And  then  weave  a  cloak  for  Orestes  the  thief,  lest  he 
strip  men  of  theirs  if  it  freezes. 

And  again  thereafter  tlie  kite  reappearing  announces 
a  change  in  the  breezes, 

99 


ARISTOPHANES 

And  that  here  is  the  season  for  shearing  your  sheep 
of  their  spring  wool.    Then  does  the  swallow 

Give  you  notice  to  sell  your  great-coat,  and  provide 
something  light  for  the  heat  that's  to  follow. 

Thus  are  we  as  Ammon  or  Delphi  unto  you,  Dodona, 
nay,  Phoebus  Apollo. 

For,  as  first  ye  come  all  to  get  auguries  of  birds,  even 
such  is  in  all  things  your  carriage, 

Be  the  matter  a  matter  of  trade,  or  of  earning  your 
bread,  or  of  any  one's  marriage. 

And  all  things  ye  lay  to  the  charge  of  a  bird  that  be- 
long to  discerning  prediction: 

Winged  fame  is  a  bird,  as  you  reckon;  you  sneeze, 
and  the  sign's  as  a  bird  for  conviction; 

All  tokens  are  "  birds  "  with  you — sounds,  too,  and 
lackeys  and  donkeys.    Then  must  it  not  follow 

That  we  are  to  you  all  as  the  manifest  godhead  that 
speaks  in  prophetic  Apollo? 


THE    CALL    TO    THE    NIGHTINGALE 

(From  "  The  Birds  *' :  Frere's  Translation) 

AWAKE!  awake! 
Sleep  no  more,  my  gentle  mate ! 
With  your  tiny  tawny  bill. 
Wake  the  tuneful  echo  shrill, 

On  vale  or  hill; 
Or  in  her  rocky  seat, 
Let  her  listen  and  repeat 
The  tender  ditty  that  you  teli. 

The  sad  lament, 

The  dire  event. 
To  luckless  Itys  that  befef 

Thence  the  strain 

Shall  rise  again. 

And  soar  amain, 

100 


FROM         THE     WOMEN  S     FESTIVAL 

Up  to  the  lofty  palace  gate 
Where  mighty  Apollo  sits  in  state 
In  Jove's  abode,  with  his  ivory  lyre. 
Hymning  aloud  to  the  heavenly  choir. 
While  all  the  gods  shall  join  with  thee 
In  a  celestial  sjinphony. 


PROM    "THE    WOMEN'S     FESTIVAl." 

(Translated  by  W.  Lucas  Collins) 

THEY'RE  always  abusing  the  women. 
As  a  terrible  plague  to  men; 
They  say  we're  the  root  of  all  evil. 

And  repeat  it  again  and  again; 
Of  war,  and  quarrels,  and  bloodshed. 

All  mischief,  be  what  it  may; 
And  pray,  then,  why  do  you  marry  us. 

If  we're  all  the  plagues  you  say? 
And  why  do  you  take  such  care  of  us, 

And  keep  us  so  safe  at  home. 
And  are  never  easy  a  moment. 

If  ever  we  chance  to  roam? 
When  you  ought  to  be  thanking  heaven 

That  your  plague  is  out  of  the  way — 
You  all  keep  fussing  and  fretting: 
"Where  is  my  Plague  to-day?" 
If  a  Plague  peeps  out  at  a  window. 

Up  go  the  eyes  of  the  men; 
If  she  hides,  then  they  all  keep  Staring 

Until  she  looks  out  again. 


lOL 


ARISTOTLE 

AaisTOTLE  was  born  in  Macedonia  in  384  B.C.; 
died  at  Chalcis  in  322.  He  was  a  student  in  Plato's 
school,  in  Athens,  and  for  a  time  acted  as  instructor 
of  Alexander  the  Great.  Aristotle  wrote  on  a  large 
variety  of  subjects.  He  gave  direction  and  system 
to  Greek  thought,  and  for  two  thousand  years  he 
was  the  greatest  force  in  the  world  of  philosophy. 


PROSECUTION    AND    DEFENSE  ' 

(Prom  Buckley's  translation  in  the  Bohn  Library)  j 

IT  will  be  for  me  next  to  speak  of  the  number  and  j 

nature  of  the  sources  out  of  which  the  orator  j 

must   construct   his  reasonings,  touching  accusation  | 

and  defense.     Now  we  must  ascertain  three  points:  j 
one,  what  and  how  many  are  the  objects  for  the  sake 

of  which  men  act  unjustly;  the  second,  how  them-  i 
selves  are  disposed;  and  the  third,  towards  persons 
of  what  character  and  of  what  disposition  they  do 
so  act. 

Let  us  then,  after  defining  the  acting  unjustly, 
speak  in  order  of  the  rest.    Let  the  acting  unjustly 

be  defined  to  be  the  voluntary  commission  of  hurt  I 

in  contravention  of  law.     Now  law  is  either  general  j 

or  peculiar.    The  peculiar  law  I  call  that,  by  whose  j 

written  enactments  men  direct  their  polity;  the  gen-  ! 

eral,  whatever  unwritten  rules  appear  to  be  recog-  j 

nized  among  all  men.     Men  are  voluntary  agents  in  J] 

whatever  they  do  wittingly,  and  without  compulsion.  ;, 

Men,  therefore,  do  not  everything  on  fixed  principle,  j 

which  they  do  wittingly  ;■  but  whatever  they  do  on  j 

102  j 


PROSECUTION    AND    DEFENSE 

fixed  principle,  that  they  do  \Wttingly;  because  no 
one  is  ignorant  of  that  which  he  chooses  on  prin- 
ciple. Now,  the  principles  by  whose  motion  men 
deliberately  choose  to  hurt  and  do  evil  in  contra- 
vention of  law  are  depravity  and  moral  weak- 
ness; for  if  any  are  depraved  either  in  one 
or  more  respects,  it  is  in  reference  to  that 
point,  on  which  they  are  so  depraved,  that  they  are 
guilty  of  injustice.  The  illiberal  man,  for  instance, 
on  the  subject  of  money;  the  intemperate,  touch- 
ing the  pleasure  of  the  body;  and  the  effeminatev 
respecting  objects  of  ease;  and  the  coward,  respect- 
ing danger  (for  it  is  by  reason  of  fear  that  men 
abandon  their  comrades  in  danger)  ;  the  ambitious 
man,  on  the  score  of  honor;  the  hasty  man,  by 
reason  of  anger;  the  man  eager  to  excel,  on  account 
of  \ictory;  the  vindictive,  for  the  sake  of  revenge; 
a  silly  man,  owing  to  his  being  mistaken  on  points  of 
right  and  wrong;  a  man  of  effrontery,  from  his  con- 
tempt of  character.  And  in  other  characters  in  the 
same  way  each  [goes  wrong]  respecting  his  own 
particular  w^eakness.  But  my  meaning  on  these  mat- 
ters will  be  evident  from  what  has  been  already  said 
on  the  subject  of  the  virtues,  and  from  what  here- 
after will  be  stated  on  the  subject  of  the  passions. 
It  merely  remains  for  me  to  state  on  what  account, 
how  effected,  and  toward  whom,  men  do  commit  in- 
justice. 

First,  then,  let  us  distinctly  enumerate  the  ob- 
jects, which  desiring,  or  which  avoiding,  we  set 
about  injustice:  because  it  evidently  should  be  con- 
sidered by  the  plaintiff  how  many,  and  what  sort  of 
those  things,  from  a  desire  of  which  men  wrong  their 
neighbors,  have  an  existence  on  the  side  of  his  adver- 
sary; and  by  the  defendant  again,  what,  and  what 
number  of  these  things  do  not  so  exist.  Now  all  men 
do  all  things  either  of  themselves,  or  not  of  them- 

103 


ARISTOTLE 

Sdves.  The  things  which  they  do  not  of  themselves, 
they  do  either  by  chance  or  from  necessity;  and  the 
things  done  by  necessity,  they  do  either  by  compul- 
sion or  by  nature.  So  that  all  things  whatsoever 
which  men  do  not  of  themselves,  they  do  either  by 
chance,  or  from  compulsion,  or  by  nature.  Again, 
the  things  which  they  do  of  themselves,  and  of  which 
they  are  themselves  the  causes,  some  they  do  through 
custom,  and  others  through  natural  desire;  and  this 
partly  through  this  desire  influenced  by  reason,  and 
in  part  through  it  devoid  of  reason.  Now,  the  act  of 
wishing  is  desire  accompanied  by  reason,  fixing  on 
some  good  as  its  object;  because  no  one  wishes  for 
anything  other  than  what  he  conceives  to  be  a  good. 
The  desires  devoid  of  reason  are  anger  and  appetite. 
So  that  all  things  whatever  which  men  do,  they  neces- 
sarily do  from  seven  causes;  by  chance,  compulsion, 
nature,  custom,  will,  anger,  or  appetite.  But  to 
carry  on  distinctions  in  reference  to  age,  or  habits, 
or  whatever  else  enacts  itself  in  conduct,  were  super- 
fluous. For,  granting  that  it  happens  to  young  men 
to  be  passionate,  it  is  not  by  motion  of  their  youth 
that  they  act  thus,  but  by  motion  of  anger  and  appe- 
tite; neither  is  it  by  motion  either  of  wealth  or  pov- 
erty simply,  but  (in  the  case  of  the  poor)  it  is  on 
account  of  their  neediness  that  it  happens  that  they 
cherish  an  appetite  for  wealth;  and  (in  the  case  of 
the  rich)  on  account  of  their  having  the  means,  that 
they  risk  an  appetite  for  unnecessary  pleasure;  and 
Jiese  persons  will  act  neither  by  motion  of  their 
;vealth  nor  of  their  poverty,  but  by  motion  of  appe- 
tite. And  in  exactly  the  same  way,  the  just  and  un- 
just, and  all  such  as  are  said  to  act  conformably  to 
habits,  will  in  reality  act,  under  all  circumstances, 
by  motion  of  these  principles;  for  they  act  on  the  im- 
pulse either  of  reason  or  of  passion;  but  some  from 
good  manners  and  passions,  others  from  the  contrary. 
Still,  however-  it  happens  that  on  habits  of  this  par- 

104 


PROSECUTION    AND    DEFENSE 

ticular  character,  principles  of  action  the  same  in 
character  are  consequent;  and  on  those  of  that  kind, 
principles  also  of  that  kind.  For  on  the  temperate 
man  perhaps  forthwith,  by  motion  of  his  temperance, 
are  attendant  good  opinions  and  appetites  respecting 
pleasures;  but  on  the  intemperate,  the  contrary  on 
these  same  subjects.  For  which  reason  we  must 
waive  distinctions  of  such  a  kind;  but  we  must  con- 
sider on  what  conditions,  what  principles  of  conduct 
are  wont  to  follow:  for  it  is  not  ordained  (in  the 
nature  of  things)  that,  if  a  man  be  white  or  black, 
or  tall  or  short,  principles  of  this  or  that  kind  should 
be  attendant  on  him;  but  if  he  be  young  or  old,  just 
or  unjust,  here  some  difference  begins;  and  so,  in  a 
word,  in  the  case  of  all  contingent  circumstances 
whatever,  which  produce  a  difference  in  the  tempers 
of  men,  for  instance,  a  man's  seeming  to  himself 
to  be  rich  or  poor,  fortunate  or  unfortunate;  in  all 
these  cases  there  will  be  some  essential  difference. 
Of  this,  however,  we  will  speak  hereafter;  let  us  now 
treat  first  of  the  remaining  points.  Things  proceed 
from  chance  which  are  of  such  kind  that  their  cause 
is  not  definite,  and  are  produced  in  the  absence  of 
any  final  motive,  and  that  neither  invariably,  nor 
usually,  nor  in  any  prescribed  order.  My  meaning 
on  these  subjects  will  be  plain  from  the  definition  of 
chance.  All  those  things  exist  naturally  whose  cause 
is  internal  and  ordinate;  for  they  turn  out,  either  in- 
variably or  generally,  in  the  same  way;  since  there  is 
no  need  of  an  accurate  inquiry  on  results  contrary  to 
nature,  whether  they  be  produced  conformably  to  a 
Certain  nature,  or  any  other  cause.  It  would  appear, 
too,  that  chance  is  the  cause  of  such  results.  All 
things  originate  in  compulsion,  which  are  produced 
through  the  instrumentality  of  the  agents  themselves, 
contrary  to  their  inclination  and  reason.  In  habit 
originates  everything  which  men  do  because  they  have 
often  done  it  before.     From  will  proceed  whatever 

105 


ARISTOTLE 

of  the  forementioned  goods  appear  to  be  useful, 
either  as  an  end  or  as  conducing  to  the  end,  when  it 
is  by  reason  of  such  their  usefulness  that  they  are 
realized  in  action:  for  even  the  intemperate  do  some 
things  which  are  useful;  but  not  on  account  of  their 
usefulness,  but  on  account  of  pleasure.  Through  the 
medium  of  anger  and  excited  feeling  arise  acts  of 
vengeance.  Now,  between  revenge  and  punishment 
there  is  a  difference;  for  punishment  is  for  the  sake 
of  the  sufferer,  but  revenge  for  that  of  the  person 
inflicting  it,  in  order  that  he  may  be  satiated.  On 
what  subjects  this  excitement  of  feeling  exists  will 
therefore  be  plain  in  my  treatise  of  the  passions. 
But  all  such  things  as  appear  pleasant  are  produced 
in  action  on  the  impulse  of  appetite.  But  that  which 
is  familiar  and  has  become  habitual  is  of  the  number 
of  things  pleasant;  for  many  things  there  are,  even 
among  such  as  are  not  pleasant  naturally,  which, 
when  men  have  been  habituated  to,  they  do  with 
pleasure.  So  that,  to  speak  in  one  word  comprehend- 
ing the  whole,  everything  whatsoever  which  men  do 
of  their  own  proper  motion,  either  is  good,  or  appar- 
ently good;  pleasant,  or  apparently  pleasant.  But 
ai6  they  act  voluntarily  in  whatever  they  do  of  their 
own  motion,  and  involuntarily  in  whatever  they  do 
not  of  their  own  motion;  all  things  whatsoever  in  re- 
spect to  which  they  act  voluntarily  will  be  either  good 
or  apparently  good;  pleasant  or  apparently  pleasant. 
For  I  also  set  down  the  getting  quit  either  of  evils 
or  apparent  evils,  and  the  getting  a  less  evil  in  ex- 
change for  a  greater,  in  the  class  of  goods;  because 
they  are  in  a  certain  way  desirable  things.  And, 
among  things  pleasant,  I  likewise  set  down  the  get- 
ting quit  of  things  bringing  pain,  or  appearing  to  do 
so;  or  the  getting  things  less  so,  in  exchange  for  such 
as  are  so  in  greater  degree. 

We  have,  therefore,  to  ascertain  the  number  of 
.things  pleasant  and  of  what  kinds  they  are.  •  Now 
106 


ON    PLEASING    THE    JUDGES 

on  the  subject  of  what  is  useful,  something  has  been 
already  said  in  my  treating  of  deliberative  rhetoric; 
but  on  the  subject  of  what  is  pleasant  let  us  treat, 
beginning  at  this  point.  As  to  the  definitions,  you 
must  deem  them  to  be  adequate  [to  my  purpose]  if 
they  be  found,  on  each  subject,  exempt  from  ob- 
scurity, though  not  accurately  precise. 


ON    PLEASING    THE    JUDGES 

THE  materials,  then,  from  which  we  must  exhort 
and  dissuade,  praise  and  blame,  accuse  and 
defend,  the  notions  also  and  propositions,  useful  in 
order  to  render  these  points  credible,  are  those  which 
we  have  discussed :  for  respecting  these  questions,  and 
out  of  these  sources,  are  enthymemes  deduced,  so 
that  an  orator,  thus  provided,  may  speak  on  each 
separate  department  of  questions.  But  as  rhetoric 
has  in  view  the  coming  to  a  decision  (for  in  delibera- 
tive oratory  the  assembly  arrive  at  decisions;  and  the 
sentence  of  a  court  of  justice  is  ipso  facto  a  de- 
cision); it  is  necessary  to  look  not  only  to  your 
speech,  in  what  way  that  will  be  of  a  character  to 
convince  and  persuade,  but  also  to  invest  yourself 
with  a  certain  kind  of  character,  and  the  judge  with 
a  certain  kind  of  feeling.  For  it  is  a  point  of  great 
consequence,  particularly  in  deliberative  cases;  and, 
next  to  these,  in  judicial;  as  well  that  the  speaker 
seem  to  be  a  man  of  a  certain  character  as  that  his 
audience  conceive  him  to  be  of  a  certain  disposition 
toward  themselves;  moreover,  it  is  of  consequence  if 
your  audience  chance  to  be  themselves  also  disposed 
in  a  certain  way.  Now,  as  to  a  speaker's  appearing 
to  be  himself  of  a  certain  character,  this  point  is 
more  available  in  deliberations:  bat  the  disposing  the 
auditor  in  a  certain  way,  in  judicial  cases;  for  things 
do  not  show  themselves  in  the  same  light  to  persons 

107 


ARISTOTLE 

affected  by  love  and  by  hatred,  nor  to  those  under 
emotions  of  anger,  as  to  those  who  are  disposed  to 
placability;  but  they  appear  either  utterly  different 
in  character,  or  at  least  different  in  degree.  For  to 
a  judge  who  is  affected  by  love  toward  the  party  re- 
specting whom  he  pronounces  his  decision,  that  party 
appears  either  not  at  all  to  be  unjust,  or  to  be  so  in 
a  very  trivial  degree.  To  a  judge,  however,  who  is 
affected  by  hatred,  the  case  has  a  contrary  appear- 
ance. So  also  to  a  person  who  is  eager  and  sanguine, 
the  proposed  object,  if  pleasant,  takes  the  appear- 
ance, as  well  of  being  likely  to  accrue,  as  of  being 
likely  to  prove  really  a  good ;  while  by  one  who  is  in- 
different and  reluctant,  the  opposite  view  is  taken. 

Now,  there  are  three  causes  of  a  speaker's  deserv- 
ing belief;  for  so  many  in  number  are  the  qualities 
on  account  of  which  we  lend  our  credit,  indepen- 
dently of  proof  adduced;  and  these  are  prudence, 
moral  excellence,  and  the  having  our  interests  at  heart 
(for  men  are  fallacious  in  what  they  allege  or  ad- 
vise by  reason,  either  of  all,  or  some,  of  these  causes; 
for  either,  from  want  of  ability,  they  do  not  rightly 
apprehend  the  question;  or,  rightly  apprehending  it, 
from  their  depravity,  they  do  not  tell  you  what  they 
think;  or,  being  men  both  of  ability  and  moral  ex- 
cellence, they  have  not  your  interests  at  heart,  on 
which  account  it  is  possible  they  should  not  give  you 
the  best  advice,  though  fully  known  what  is  best) ; 
End  besides  these  there  is  no  other:  it  follows,  there- 
fore, of  course,  that  the  speaker  who  appears  to  pos- 
sess all  these  qualities  is  considered  by  his  audience 
as  deserving  credit.  Now,  the  means  by  which  men 
may  appear  virtuous  and  prudent  are  to  be  derived 
from  what  has  been  laid  down  on  the  subject  of  the 
virtues ;  for  it  is  by  help  of  the  very  same  things  that 
an  orator  may  invest  himself,  and  any  one  else,  in  a 
certain  character.  The  subject  of  feeling  an  interest, 
and  of  friendliness,  must  be  discussed  in  my  treatise 


ON    EXCEI.LENCE    OF    STYLE 

of  the  passions,  commencing  henceforth.  Passions, 
however^  are  all  emotions  whatsoever,  on  which  pain 
and  pleasure  are  consequent,  by  whose  operation, 
undergoing  a  change,  men  differ  in  respect  to  their 
decisions:  for  instance,  anger,  pity,  fear,  and  what- 
ever other  emotions  are  of  such  a  nature,  and  those 
opposed  to  them.  But  it  will  be  fitting  to  divide  what 
I  have  to  say  respecting  each  into  three  considera- 
tions: to  consider,  respecting  anger,  for  example, 
how  those  who  are  susceptible  of  anger  are  affected; 
with  whom  they  usually  are  angry;  and  on  what  oc- 
casions. For,  granted  that  we  be  in  possession  of 
one,  or  even  two,  of  these  points,  and  not  of  them  all, 
it  will  be  impossible  for  us  to  kindle  anger  in  the 
breast ;  and  in  the  case  of  the  rest  of  the  passions  in 
a  similar  way.  In  the  same  way,  then,  as  on  the  sub- 
jects treated  of  above,  I  have  separately  drawn  up 
the  several  propositions,  so  let  me  do  in  respect  of 
these  also,  and  make  my  distinctions  according  to  the 
manner  specified. 


ON    EXCELLENCE    OF    STYLE 

LET  excellence  of  style  be  defined  to  consist  in 
its  being  clear  (a  sign  of  this  is  this,  that  th( 
diction,  unless  it  make  the  sentiment  clear,  will  no 
affect  its  purpose) ;  and  neither  low,  nor  above  the 
dignity  of  the  subject,  but  in  good  taste;  for  the 
style  of  poetry,  indeed,  is  not  low,  yet  it  is  not  be- 
coming in  prose. 

Of  nouns  and  verbs  those  which  are  in  general  use 
produce  the  effect  of  clearness;  to  prevent  its  being 
low,  and  to  give  it  ornament,  there  are  other  nouns 
which  have  been  mentioned  in  the  "  Poetics,"  for  a 
departure  [from  ordinary  acceptations]  causes  it  to 
appear  more  dignified;  for  men  are  affected  in  re- 
spect of  style  in  the  very  same  way  as  they  are  to- 

109 


ARISTOTLE 

wards  foreigners  and  citizens.  On  which  account 
you  should  give  your  phrase  a  foreign  air;  for  men 
are  admirers  of  things  out  of  the  way,  and  what  is 
an  object  of  admiration  is  pleasant.  Now  in  the 
case  of  metrical  compositions,  there  are  many  things 
which  produce  this  effect,  and  they  are  very  becom- 
ing, because  both  the  subject  and  the  person  stand 
more  apart  [from  ordinary  life];  in  prose,  how- 
ever, these  helps  are  much  fewer,  for  the  subject  is 
less  exalted:  since  even  in  that  art  were  a  slave,  or  a 
mere  youth,  or  [any  one,  in  fact,  in  speaking]  of 
mere  trifles  to  express  himself  in  terms  of  studied 
ornament,  it  would  be  rather  unbecoming;  but  here 
too  [as  in  poetry]  the  rule  of  good  taste  is  that  your 
style  be  lowered  or  raised  according  to  the  subject. 
On  which  account  we  must  escape  observation  in 
doing  this,  and  not  appear  to  speak  in  a  studied 
manner,  but  naturally,  for  the  one  is  of  a  tendency 
to  persuade,  the  other  is  the  very  reverse;  because 
people  put  themselves  on  their  guard,  as  thou^ 
against  one  who  has  a  design  upon  them,  just  as  they 
would  against  adulterated  wine.  [Let  your  style 
then  be  such]  as  was  the  case  with  the  voice  of  Theo- 
dorus  as  compared  with  that  of  the  other  actors;  for 
it  appeared  to  be  that  of  the  character  which  was 
speak'ing,  theirs,  however,  were  foreign  from  the 
character.  And  the  deceit  is  neatly  passed  off  if  one 
frame  his  nomenclature  upon  a  selection  from  ordi- 
nary conversation;  the  thing  which  Euripides  does, 
and  first  gave  the  hint  of. 

As,  however,  nouns  and  verbs  are  [the  materials} 
of  which  the  speech  is  made  up,  and  as  nouns  admit 
so  many  species  as  have  been  examined  in  the 
"  Poetics,"  out  of  the  number  of  these  we  must  em- 
ploy but  sparingly,  and  in  very  few  places,  exotic 
and  compound  words,  and  those  newly  coined ;  where 
they  may  be  employed  I  will  state  hereafter:  the 
reason  [of  the  restriction]  has  been  mentioned,  viz., 

110 


ON    EXCELLENCE    OF    STYLE 

because  thev  remove  your  style  [from  that  of  com' 
mon  life]  more  than  is  consistent  with  good  taste. 
Words,  however,  of  ordinary  use,  and  in  their  original 
acceptations  and  metaphors,  are  alone  available  in 
the  style  of  prose:  a  proof  [that  this  is  the  fact  is] 
that  these  are  the  only  words  which  all  persons  em- 
ploy; for  everybody  carries  on  conversation  by  means 
of  metaphors,  and  words  in  their  primary  sense,  and 
those  of  ordinary  use.  Thus  it  is  plain  that  if  one 
should  have  constructed  his  style  well,  it  will  be  both 
of  a  foreign  character,  and  that  [the  art  of  the  ora- 
tor] may  still  elude  observation,  and  [the  style  itself] 
will  have  the  advantage  of  clearness;  this,  however, 
was  laid  down  to  be  the  perfection  of  rhetorical  lan- 
guage. But  of  all  nouns,  those  which  are  equivocal 
suit  the  purposes  of  the  sophist,  for  by  their  help  he 
effects  his  fallacies,  while  synonyms  are  of  use  to  the 
poet;  I  mean  these  which  are  both  synonyms  and  of 
common  usage,  as  iropevrjadai  and  §adl^€i.v,  for  these 
two  are  both  of  common  usage  and  synonymous  to 
each  other. 

The  nature  then  of  each  of  these  varieties,  and 
how  many  species  of  metaphor  there  are,  and  also 
that  this  ornament  is  of  the  greatest  effect,  as  well 
in  poetry  as  prose,  has  been  explained  (as  I  have  ob- 
served above),  in  the  "Poetics."  In  prose,  how- 
ever, we  should  bestow  the  greater  attention  on  them, 
in  proportion  as  an  oration  has  to  be  made  up  of 
fewer  adjuments  than  a  metrical  composition.  More- 
over, the  metaphor  possesses  in  an  especial  manner 
[the  beauties  of]  clearness  and  sweetness,  with  ar 
air  of  being  foreign;  and  it  is  not  possible  to  derive 
it  from  any  other  person. 

You  must,  however,  apply,  in  the  case  both  of  epi- 
thets and  metaphors,  such  as  are  appropriate;  and 
this  will  depend  on  their  being  constructed  on  princi- 
ples of  analog^'',  otherwise  they  will  be  sure  to  appear 
in  bad  taste;  because  contraries  show  themselves  tc 

111 


ARISTOTLE 

oe  such,  particularly  when  set  by  each  other.  But 
you  must  consider,  as  a  purple  garment  becomes  a 
youth,  what  is  equally  so  to  an  old  man;  since  the 
tame  garment  does  not  become  [both]. 

And  if  you  wish  to  embellish  your  subject,  see  you 
deduce  your  metaphor  from  such  things  coming 
under  the  same  class  as  are  better;  and  if  to  cry  it 
down,  from  such  as  are  worse:  I  mean,  as  the  cases 
pre  opposed  and  come  under  the  same  genus,  that 
the  saying,  for  example,  of  a  beggar,  that  "  he 
prays,"  and  of  one  who  is  praying,  that  "  he  begs  " 
(both  being  species  of  asking),  is  to  do  the  thing 
which  has  been  mentioned;  just  as  Iphicrates  called 
Callias  "  a  mere  collector  to  the  goddess,  and  not  a 
bearer  of  the  torch."  He,  howevf  r,  replied,  "  that 
he  must  needs  be  uninitiated  himself,  or  he  would 
not  call  him  a  collector,  but  a  bearer  of  the  torch.** 
For  these  are  both  services  connected  with  the  god- 
dess ;  the  one,  however,  is  respectable,  while  the  other 
is  held  in  no  repute.  And  some  one  [speaks  of  the 
courtiers  of  Dionysius  as]  Dionysian  parasites;  they, 
however,  call  themselves  artificers.  And  these  expres- 
sions are  both  metaphors;  the  one  of  persons  who 
would  depreciate,  the  other  the  contrary.  Even  rob- 
bers, nowadays,  call  themselves  purveyors.  On 
which  principle  we  may  say  of  a  man  who  "  has 
acted  unjustly,"  that  he  "is  in  error";  and  of  one 
who  "is  in  error,"  that  he  "has  acted  unjustly.'* 
Again,  of  one  who  has  stolen,  both  that  has  taken, 
[in  way  of  diminution,]  and  that  has  ravaged  [in 
exaggeration].  But  the  saying,  as  the  Telephus  of 
Euripides  does,  "  that  he  lords  it  o'er  the  oars,  and 
landing  in  Mysia,"  etc.,  is  out  of  taste;  for  the  ex- 
pression, "lording  it  o'er,"  is  above  the  dignity  of 
the  subject;  [the  rhetorical  artifice]  then,  is  not 
palmed  off.  Tliere  will  also  be  a  fault  in  the  sylla- 
bles, unless  they  are  significant  of  a  grateful  sound; 
for  instance,  Dionysius,  sumamed  Chalcous,  in  his 

113 


ON    EXCELLENCE    OF    STYLE 

elegies,  calls  poetry,  "the  clangor  of  Calliope,"  be- 
cause both  are  vocal  sounds;  the  metaphor,  howevec. 
is  a  paltry  one,  and  couched  in  uncouth  expressions. 

Again,  our  metaphors  should  not  I->e  farfetched; 
but  we  should  make  the  transfer,  on  the  principle  of 
assigning  names  out  of  the  number  of  kindred  ob- 
jects, and  such  as  are  the  same  in  species,  to  objects 
which  are  unnamed,  of  which,  however,  it  is  clear, 
simultaneously  with  their  being  uttered,  that  they  are 
akin,  as  in  that  approved  enigma, — 

A  man  I  once  beheld,   [and  wondering  view*d,] 
Who,    on   another,    brass    with   fire    had    glued. 

— Twining. 

for  the  operation  is  undesignated  by  any  name,  and 
both  are  species  of  attaching;  wherefore  the  writer 
called  the  application  of  the  cupping  instrument,  a 
gluing.  And,  generally  speaking,  it  is  possible  out 
of  neatly  constructed  enigmas  to  extract  excellent 
metaphors:  because  it  is  on  the  principles  of  meta- 
phor that  men  construct  enigmas;  so  that  it  is  evident 
that  [if  the  enigma  be  a  good  one]  the  metaphor  has 
been  properly  borrowed. 

The  transfer  also  should  be  made  from  objects 
which  are  beautiful;  beauty,  however,  of  words  con- 
sists, as  Licymnius  observes,  in  the  sound  or  in  the 
idea  conveyed;  as  does  also  their  inelegance.  And 
there  is,  moreover,  a  third,  which  does  away  the 
sophistical  doctrine;  since  it  is  not  the  fact,  as  Bryso 
argues,  "  that  no  one  speaks  inelegantly,  if,  indeed, 
the  using  one  expression  instead  of  another  carries 
with  it  the  same  meaning  " :  for  this  is  a  fallacy ;  be- 
cause sonit  words  are  nearer  in  their  ordinary  ac- 
ceptations, more  assimilated,  and  have  more  peculiar 
force  of  setting  the  object  before  the  eyes  than  oth- 
ers. And  what  is  more,  one  word  represents  the  ob- 
ject under  diflFerent  circumstances  from  another;  so 
that  we  may  even  on  this  principle  lay  it  Jown  that 

113 


ARISTOTLE 

one  word  has  more  or  less  of  beauty  and  inelegance 
than  another;  for  although  both  words,  [at  the  same 
time,]  express  [properties  which  are  J  beautiful,  as 
well  as  such  as  are  inelegant;  yet  they  either  ex- 
press them  not  qua  they  are  beautiful,  or  not  qua 
they  are  inelegant;  or  granting  they  do,  yet  they 
express  them,  the  one  in  a  greater,  the  other  in  a  less 
degree.  But  we  are  to  deduce  our  metaphors  from 
these  sources; — from  such  as  are  beautiful  either  in 
sound,  in  meaning,  or  [in  the  image  they  present]  to 
the  sight,  or  any  other  sense.  And  there  is  a  differ- 
ence, in  the  saying,  for  instance,  "  the  rosy-fingered 
Aurora,"  rather  than  "  the  purple-fingered,"  or,  what 
is  still  worse,  "  the  crimson-fingered." 

Also,  in  the  case  of  epithets,  it  is  very  possible  to 
derive  one's  epithets  from  a  degrading  or  disgrace- 
ful view  of  the  case;  for  instance,  "the  murderer  of 
his  mother " :  and  we  may  derive  them  from  a  view 
on  the  better  side;  as,  "the  avenger  of  his  father." 
And  Simonides,  when  the  victor  in  a  race  by  mules 
offered  him  a  trifling  present,  was  not  disposed  to 
write,  as  though  feeling  hurt  at  writing  on  demiasses; 
when,  however,  he  offered  a  sufficient  present,  he 
composed  the  poem — 

Hail!     Daughters  of  the  generous  Horse, 
That    skim,    like   wind,    along   the   course,    etc. 

— Harris. 

and  yet  they  were  daughters  of  asses  as  well.  Again, 
it  is  possible  to  express  the  selfsame  thing  diminu- 
tively. And  it  is  the  employment  of  diminutives 
which  renders  both  good  and  evil  less;  just  as  Aris- 
tophanes jests  in  "The  Babyloiiians  " ;  using,  instead 
of  gold,  "  a  tiny  piece  of  gold  ";  instead  of  "  a  gar- 
ment," "  a  little  garment  " ;  instead  of  "  reproach," 
"  puny  reproach  ";  and  instead  of  "  sickness,"  "  slight 
indisposition."  We  ought,  however,  to  be  careful,  and 
always  keep  to  the  mean  in  both  cases.  .  .  . 
114 


THE    HIGHEST    GOOD    OF    MAN 

Style  will  possess  the  quality  of  being  in  good  taste 
if  it  be  expressive  at  once  of  feeling  and  character, 
and  in  proportion  to  the  subject-matter.  This  pre 
portion,  however,  is  preserved,  provided  the  style  be 
neither  careless  on  questions  of  dignity,  nor  dignified 
on  such  as  are  mean:  neither  to  a  mean  word  let  or- 
nament be  superadded;  otherwise  it  appears  mere 
burlesque.     .     .     . 

But  [the  style]  expressive  of  feeling,  supposing 
the  case  be  one  of  assault,  is  the  style  of  a  man 
in  a  passion;  if,  however,  it  be  one  of  loathsome- 
ness and  impiety,  the  expressing  yourself  with 
disgust  and  painful  caution;  if,  however,  the  case 
demand  praise,  with  exultation;  if  pity,  with  submis- 
sion ;  and  so  on  in  the  other  cases.  And  a  style  which 
is  appropriate,  moreover,  invests  the  subject  with 
persuasive  efficacy.  For  the  mind  is  cheated  into  a 
persuasion,  that  the  orator  is  speaking  with  sincer- 
ity, because  under  such  circumstances  men  stand 
affected  in  that  manner.  So  that  people  suppose 
things  to  be  even  as  the  speaker  states  them,  what 
though,  in  reality,  they  are  not:  and  the  hearer  has 
a  kindred  feeling  with  the  orator,  who  expresses 
himself  feelingly,  even  should  he  say  nothing  to  the 
purpose;  availing  themselves  of  which,  may  bear 
down  their  hearers  in  the  storm  of  passion. 


THE    HIGHEST    GOOD    OF    MAN 

EVERY  art  and  every  scientific  system,  and  in 
like  manner  every  cause  of  action  and  delib- 
erate preference,  seems  to  aim  at  some  good;  and 
consequently  "  the  Goocf'  has  been  well  defined  as 
"  that  which  all  things  aim  at." 

But  there  appears  to  be  a  kind  of  difference  in 
ends;  for  some  are  energies;  others  again  beyond 
these,  certain  works;  but  wherever  there  are  certain 


ARISTOTLE 

ends  besides  the  actions,  there  the  works  are  natu- 
rallj'-  better  than  the  energies. 

Now  since  there  are  many  actions,  arts,  and  sci- 
ences, it  follows  that  there  are  many  ends;  for  of 
medicine  the  end  is  health;  of  ship-building,  a  ship; 
of  generalship,  victory;  of  economy,  wealth.  But 
whatever  of  such  arts  are  contained  under  any  one 
faculty  (as,  tor  instance,  under  horsemanship  is 
contained  the  art  of  making  bridles,  and  all  other 
horse  furniture ;  and  this  and  the  whole  art  of  war  is 
contained  under  generalship;  and  in  the  same  man- 
ner other  arts  are  contained  under  different  facul- 
ties), in  all  these  the  ends  of  the  chief  arts  are  more 
eligible  than  the  ends  of  the  subordinate  ones;  be- 
cause for  the  sake  of  the  former,  the  latter  are  pur- 
sued. It  makes,  however,  no  difference  whether  the 
energies  themselves,  or  something  else  besides  these, 
are  the  ends  of  actions,  just  as  it  would  make  no 
difference  in  the  sciences  above  mentioned. 

If,  therefore,  there  is  some  end  of  all  that  we  do, 
which  we  wish  for  on  its  own  account,  and  if  we  wish 
for  all  other  things  on  account  of  this,  and  do  not 
choose  everything  for  the  sake  of  something  else 
(for  thus  we  should  go  on  to  infinity,  so  that  desire 
would  be  empty  and  vain),  it  is  evident  that  this 
must  be  "  the  good,"  and  the  greatest  good.  Has 
not,  then,  the  knowledge  of  this  end  a  great  influence 
on  the  conduct  of  life?  and,  like  archers,  shall  we  not 
have  a  mark?  If  so,  we  ought  to  endeavor  to  give  an 
outline  at  least  of  its  nature,  and  to  determine  to 
which  of  the  sciences  or  faculties  it  belongs. 

Now  it  would  appear  to  be  th*»  end  of  that  which 
is  especially  the  chief  and  master  science,  and  this 
seems  to  be  the  political  science,  for  it  directs  what 
sciences  states  ought  to  cultivate,  what  individuals 
should  learn,  and  how  far  they  should  pursue  them. 
We  see,  too,  that  the  most  valued  faculties  are  com- 
prehended   under   it,    as    for   example,    generalship, 

116 


THE    HIGHEST    GOOD    OF    MAN 

economy,  rhetoric.  Since,  then,  this  science  makes 
use  of  the  practical  sciences,  and  legislates  respect- 
ing what  ought  to  be  done,  and  what  abstained  from, 
its  end  must  include  those  of  the  others;  so  that  this 
end  must  be  the  good  of  man.  Yot  although  the 
good  of  an  individual  and  a  state  be  the  same,  still 
that  of  a  state  appears  more  important  and  more 
perfect  both  to  obtain  and  to  preserve.  To  discover 
the  good  of  an  individual  is  satisfactory,  but  to  dis- 
cover that  of  a  state  or  a  nation  is  more  noble  and 
divine.  This,  then,  is  the  object  of  my  treatise, 
wtiich  is  of  a  political  kind.     *     *     *     * 

Since  all  knowledge  and  every  act  of  deliberate 
preference  aims  at  some  good,  let  us  show  what  that 
iSt  which  we  say  that  the  political  science  aims  at, 
and  what  is  the  highest  good  of  all  things  which  are 
done.  As  to  its  name,  indeed,  almost  all  men  are 
agreed;  for  both  the  vulgar  and  the  educated  call  it 
happiness:  but  they  suppose  that  to  live  well  and  do 
well  are  synonyms  with  being  happy.  But  con- 
cerning the  nature  of  happiness  they  are  at  variance, 
and  the  vulgar  do  not  give  the  same  definition  of  it 
as  the  educated;  for  some  imagine  it  to  be  an  obvi- 
ous and  well-known  object — such  as  pleasure,  or 
wealth,  or  honor;  but  different  men  think  differ- 
ently of  it;  and  frequently  even  the  same  person 
entertains  different  opinions  respecting  it  at  differ- 
ent times;  for,  when  diseased,  he  believes  it  to  be 
health;  when  poor,  wealth;  but,  conscious  of  their 
own  ignorance,  they  admire  those  who  say  that  it  is 
something  great  and  beyond  them.  Some,  again, 
have  supposed  that  besides  these  numerous  goods, 
there  is  another  self-existent  good,  which  is  to  all 
these  the  cause  of  their  being  goods.  Now,  to  exam- 
ine all  the  opinions  would  perhaps  be  rather  un- 
profitable; but  it  will  be  sufficient  to  examine  those 
which  lie  most  upon  the  surface,  or  seem  to  be  most 
reasonable. 

117 


ARISTOTLE 

Let  it  not,  however,  escape  our  notice,  that  argu- 
ments from  principles  differ  from  arguments  to  prin« 
ciples,  for  well  did  Plato  also  propose  doubts  on  this 
point,  and  inquire  whether  the  right  way  is  from 
principle  or  to  principles;  just  as  in  the  course 
from  the  starting-post  to  the  goal,  or  the  contrary. 
For  we  must  begin  from  those  things  that  are  known ; 
and  things  are  known  in  two  ways;  or  some  are 
known  to  ourselves,  others  are  generally  known; 
perhaps,  therefore,  we  should  begin  from  the  things 
known  to  ourselves. 

Whoever,  therefore,  is  to  study  with  advantage  the 
things  which  are  honorable  and  just,  and  in  a  word 
the  subjects  of  political  science,  must  have  been  well 
and  morally  educated;  for  the  point  from  whence 
we  must  begin  is  the  fact,  and  if  this  is  satisfactorily 
proved,  it  will  be  unnecessary  to  add  the  reason. 
Such  a  student  possesses,  or  would  easily  acquire,  the 
principles.  But  let  him  who  possesses  neither  of 
these  qualifications,  hear  the  sentiments  of  Hesiod: 

"  Far  does  the  man  all  other  men  excel, 
Who,  from  his  wisdom,  thinks  in  all  things  well. 
Wisely  considering,  to  himself  a  friend. 
All  for  the  present  best,  and  for  the  end. 
Nor  is  the  man  without  his  share  of  praise, 
Who  well  the  dictates  of  the  wise  obeys: 
But  he  that  is  not  wise  himself,  nor  can 
Hearken  to  wisdom,  is  a  useless  man." 


118 


EDWIN   ARNOLD 


Sib  Edwix  Arxold,  poet  and  journalist,  was 
born  in  England  in  1833.  He  won  a  scholarship 
at  Oxford,  and  received  the  Newdigate  prize  for 
poetry.  In  addition  to  his  numerous  poems  he  wrote 
a  number  of  practical  books  on  education  and  ad- 
ministration in  India.  "  The  Light  of  Asia  "  is  his 
most  famous  work. 


SERENADE 

(The  MacMillan  Co.,  Publishers) 

LUTE !  breathe  thy  lowest  in  my  Lady's  ear, 
Sing    while    she    sleeps,    "  Ah !    belle    dam^ 
aimexvous  ?  '* 
Till,  dreaming  still,  she  dream  that  I  am  here. 

And  wake  to  find  it,  as  my  love  is,  true; 
Then,  while  she  listens  in  her  warm  white  nest, 

Say  in  slow  music, — softer,  tenderer  yet. 
That  lute-strings  quiver  when  their  tone's  at  rest 
And  my  heart  trembles  when  my  lips  are  set. 

Stars !  if  my  sweet  love  still  a-dreaming  lies. 

Shine  through  the  roses  for  a  lover's  sake; 
And  send  your  silver  to  her  lidded  eyes, 

Kissing  them  very  gently  till  she  wake; 
Then,  while  she  wonders  at  the  lay  and  light. 

Tell  her,  though  morning  endeth  star  and  song. 
That  ye  live  still,  when  no  star  glitters  bright, 

And  my  love  lasteth,  though  it  find  no  tongue. 

119 


*:DWIN    ARNOLD 


THE    LIGHT    OF    ASIA 

Yet  not  to  love 
Alone  trusted  the  king;  love's  prison-house 
Stately  and  beautiful  he  bade  them  build, 
So  that  in  all  the  earth  no  marvel  was 
Like  Vishramvan,  the  prince's  pleasure-plnt^e. 
Midway  in  those  wide  palace-grounds  there  rose 
A  verdant  hill  whose  base  Rohini  bathed. 
Murmuring  adown  from  Himalay's  broail  feet. 
To  bear  its  tribute  into  Gunga's  waves. 
Southward  is  a  growth  of  tamarind  trees,  and  sdl, 
Thick  set  Math  pale  sky-colored  ganthi-ilowers. 
Shut  out  the  world,  save  if  the  city's  hum 
Came  on  the  wind  no  harsher  than  when  bees 
Hum  out  of  sight  in  thickets.    Northward  soared 
The  stainless  ramps  of  huge  Himala's  wall. 
Ranged  in  white  ranks  against  the  blue — untrod, 
Infinite,  wonderful — whose  uplands  vast. 
And  lifted  universe  of  crest  and  crag. 
Shoulder  and  shelf,  green  slope  and  icy  horn. 
Riven  ravine,  and  splintered  precipice 
Led  climbing  thought  higher  and  higher,  until 
It  seemed  to  stand  in  heaven  and  speak  with  gods. 

Fronting  this 
The  builders  set  the  bright  pavilion  up. 
Fair-planted  on  the  ierraced  hill,  with  towers 
On  either  flank  and  pillarea  jloisters  round. 
Its  beams  were  carved  with  stories  of  old  time — 
Radha  and  Krishna  and  the  sylvan  girls — 
Sita  and  Hanuman  and  Draupadi; 
And  on  the  middle  porch  god  Ganesha, 
With  disk  and  hook — to  bring  wisdom  and  wealth- 
Propitious  safe,  wreathing  his  sidelong  trunk. 
By  winding  ways  of  garden  and  of  court 
The  imier  gate  was  reached,  of  marble  wrought, 

120 


THE    LIGHT    OF    ASIA 

White  with  pink  veins;  the  Hntel  lazuli, 
The  threshold  alabaster,  and  the  doors 
Sandal-wood,  cut  in  pictured  panelling; 
Whereby  to  lofty  halls  and  shadowy  bowers 
Passed  the  delighted  foot,  on  stately  stairs, 
Through  latticed  gallerys,  'neath  painted  roofs 
And    clustering    columns,    where    cool    fountains — 

fringed 
With  lotus  and  nelumbo — danced,  and  fish 
Gleamed    through   their   crystal,   scarlet,    gold,    and 

blue. 
Great-ejed  gazelles  in  sunny  alcoves  browsed 
The  blown  red  roses;  birds  of  rainbow  wing 
Fluttered  among  the  palms;  doves,  green  and  gray, 
Built  their  safe  nests  on  gilded  cornices; 
Over  the  shinrng  pavements  peacocks  drew 
The  splendors  of  their  trains,  sedately  watched 
By  milk-white  herons  and  the  small  house-owls. 
The  plum-necked  parrots  swung  from  fruit  to  fruit 
The  yellow  sun-birds  whirred  from  bloom  to  bloom, 
The  timid  lizards  on  the  lattice  basked 
Fearless,  the  squirrels  ran  to  feed  from  hand. 
For  all  was  peace:  the  shy  black  snake,  that  gives 
Fortune  to  households,  sunned  his  sleepy  coils 
Under  the  moon-flowers,  where  the  musk-deer  played' 
And  brown-eyed  monkeys  chattered  to  the  crows.       ( 
And  all  this  house  of  love  was  peopied  fair 
With  sweet  attendance,  so  that  in  each  part 
With  lovely  sights  were  gentle  faces  found. 
Soft  speech  and  willing  service,  each  one  glad 
To  gladden,  pleased  at  pleasure,  proud  to  obey; 
Till  life  glided  beguiled,  like  a  smooth  stream 
Banked  by  perpetual  flow'rs,  Yasodhara 
Queen  of  the  enchanting  court 

But  innermost, 
Beyond  the  richness  of  those  hundred  halls; 
A  secret  chamber  lurked  where  skill  had  spen* 

121 


J«f)^lN    ARNOLD 

All  lovely  fantasieP  to  lull  the  mind. 

The  entrance  of  it  was  a  cloistered  square — 

Roofed  by  the  sky,  'vnd  in  the  midst  a  tank — 

Of  milky  marble  built,  and  laid  with  slabs 

Of  milk-white  marble;  bordered  round  the  tank 

And  on  the  steps,  and  all  along  the  frieze 

With  tender  inlaid  work  of  agate-stones. 

Cool  as  to  tread  in  summer-time  on  snows 

It  was  to  loiter  there;  th**  sunbeams  dropped 

Their  gold,  and,  passing  into  porch  and  niche. 

Softened  to  shadows,  silvery,  pale,  and  dim. 

As  if  the  very  day  paused  and  grew  eve 

In  love  and  silence  at  that  bower's  gate; 

For  there  beyond  the  gate  th^  chamber  was. 

Beautiful,  sweet;  a  wonder  of  thft  world! 

Soft  light  from  per  fumed  lamps  through  windows  fell 

Of  nakre  and  stained  stars  of  luc^i^t  film 

On  golden  cloths  outspread,  and  silken  beds. 

And  heavy  splendor  of  the  purdah's  fringe. 

Lifted  to  take  only  the  loveliest  in. 

Here,  whether  it  was  night  or  day  noiK*  knew 

For    always    streamed    that    softening    Jjght,    mo»^ 

bright 
Than  sunrise,  but  as  tender  as  the  eve's; 
And  always  breathed  sweet  airs,  more  joy-jriving 
Than  morning's,  but  as  cool  as  midnight's  breath; 
And  night  and  day  lutes  sighed,  and  night  anti  d^v 
Delicious  foods  were  spread,  and  dewy  fruits, 
Sherbets  new  chilled  with  snows  of  Himalay, 
And  sweetmeats  made  of  subtle  daintiness. 
With  sweet  tree-milk  in  its  own  ivory  cup. 
And  night  and  day  served  there  a  chosen  band 
Of  nautch-girls,  cup-bearers,  and  cymballers. 
Delicate,  dark-browed  ministers  of  love, 
Who  fanned  the  sleeping  eyes  of  the  happy  prince, 
And  when  he  waked,  led  back  his  thoughts  to  bhss 
With    music    whispering    through    the    blooms,    and 

charm 

125 


■fYHC    LIGHT    OF    ASIA 

Of  amorous  songs  and  dreamy  dances,  linked 
By  chime  of  ankle  bells  and  wave  of  arms 
And  silver  vina-strings:  while  essences 
Of  musk  and  champak  and  the  blue  haze  spread 
From  burning  spices  soothed  his  soul  again 
To  drowse  by  sweet  Yasodhara;  and  thus 
Siddartha  lived  forgetting. 

Furthermore, 
The  king  commanded  that  within  those  walls 
No  mention  should  be  made  of  death  or  age. 
Sorrow,  or  pain,  or  sickness.     If  one  dropped 
In  the  lovely  court — her  dark  glance  dim,  her  feet 
Faint  in  the  dance — the  guiltless  criminal 
Passed  forth  an  exile  from  that  Paradise, 
Lest  he  should  see  and  suffer  at  her  woe. 
Bright-eyed  intendants  watched  to  execute 
Sentence  on  such  as  spake  of  the  harsh  world 
Wit-hout,  where  aches  and  plagues  were,  tears  anck 

fears 
And  wail  of  mourners,  and  grim  fume  of  pyrea. 
*Twas  treason  if  a  thread  of  silver  strayed 
In  tress  of  singing-girl  or  nautch-dancer ; 
At  every  dawn  the  dying  rose  was  plucked, 
The  dead  leaves  hid,  all  evil  sights  removed : 
For  said  the  king,  "If  he  shall  pass  his  youth 
Far  from  such  things  as  move  to  wistfulness, 
And  brooding  on  the  empty  eggs  of  thoughtj 
The  shadow  of  this  fate,  too  vast  for  man, 
May  fade,  belike,  and  I  shall  see  him  grow 
To  that  great  stature  of  fair  sovereignty 
When  he  shall  rule  all  lands — if  he  will  rule — • 
The  king  of  kings  and  glory  of  his  time." 

Softly  the  Indian  night  sinks  on  the  plains 
At  full  moon  in  the  month  of  Chaitra  Shud, 
When  mangoes  redden  and  the  asoka  buds 
Sweeten  the  breeze,  and  Rama's  birthday  comes, 

123 


EDWIN    ARNOLD 

And  ali  the  fields  are  glad  and  all  the  towns. 
Softly  that  night  fell  over  Vishramvan, 
Fragrant  with  blooms  and  jeweled  thick  with  stars. 
And  cool  with  mountain  airs  sighing  adown 
From  snow-flats  on  Himala  high  outspread; 
For  the  moon  swung  above  the  eastern  peaks. 
Climbing  the  spangled  vault,  and  lighting  clear 
Rohini's  ripples  and  the  hills  and  plains 
And  all  the  sleeping  land,  and  near  at  hand 
Silvering  those  roof-tops  of  the  pleasure-house. 
Where  nothing  stirred  nor  sign  of  watching  was. 
Save  at  the  outer  gates,  whose  warders  cried 
Muclra,  the  watchword,  and  the  countersign 
Angana,  and  the  watch-drums  beat  a  round; 
Whereat  the  earth  lay  still,  except  for  call 
Of  prowling  jackals,  and  the  ceaseless  trill 
Of  crickets  on  the  garden  grounds. 

Within— 
Where  the  moon  glittered  through  the  lace-worked 

stone 
Lighting  the  walls  of  pearl-shell  and  the  floors 
Paved  with  veined  marble — softly  fell  her  beams 
On  such  rare  company  of  Indian  girls. 
It  seemed  some  chamber  sweet  in  Paradise 
Where  Devis  rested.    All  the  chosen  ones 
Of  Prince  Siddartha's  pleasure  home  were  there, 
The  brightest  and  most  faithful  of  the  court, 
Each  form  so  lovely  in  the  peace  of  sleep. 
That  you  had  said,  "  This  is  the  pearl  of  all  I " 
Save  that  beside  her  or  beyond  her  lay 
Fairer  and  fairer  till  the  pleasured  gaze 
Roamed  o'er  that  feast  of  beauty  as  it  roams 
From  gem  to  gem  in  some  great  goldsmith-work, 
Caught  by  each  color  till  the  next  is  seen. 
With  careless  grace  they  lay,  their  soft  brown  limbs 
Part  hidden,  part  revealed;  their  glossy  hair 
Bound  back  with  gold  or  flowers  or  flowing  loose 

124 


THE     LIGHT    OF    ASIA 

In  Mack  wares  down  the  shapely  nape  and  neck» 
Lulled  in\o  pleasant  dreams  by  happy  toils. 
They  slept,  no  wearier  than  jeweled  birds 
"U'hich  sing  and  iove  all  day,  then  under  wing 
Fold  head  till  morn  bids  sing  and  love  again. 
Lamps  of  chased  silver  swinging  from  the  roof 
In  silver  chains,  and   fed  with  perfumed  oils, 
Made  with  the  moonbeams  tender  lights  and  shades. 
Whereby  were  seen  the  perfect  lines  of  grace. 
The  bosom's  placid  heave,  the  soft  stained  palms 
Drooping  or  clasped,  the  faces  fair  and  dark, 
The  great  arched  brows,  the  parted  lips,  the  teeth 
Like  pearls  a  merchant  picks  to  make  a  string. 
The  satin-lidded  eyes  Avith  lashes  dropped 
Sweeping  the  delicate  cheeks,  the  rounded  wrists, 
The  smooth  small  feet  with  bells  and  bangles  decked, 
Tinkling  low  music  where  some  sleeper  moved. 
Breaking  her  smiling  dream  of  some  new  dance 
Praised  by  the  prince,  some  magic  ring  to  find, 
Some  fairy  love-gift.     Here  one  lay  full-length. 
Her  vina  by  her  cheek,  and  in  its  strings 
The  little  fingers  still  all  interlaced 
As  when  the  last  notes  of  her  light  song  played 
Those  radiant  eyes  to  sleep  and  sealed  her  own. 
Another  slumbered  folding  in  her  arms 
A  desert  antelope,  its  slender  head 
Buried  with  back-sloped  horns  between  her  breasts 
Soft  nestling;  it  was  eating — when  both  drowsed — 
Red  roses,  and  her  loosening  hand  still  held 
A  rose  half-mumbled,  while  a  rose-leaf  curled 
Between  the  deer's  lips.    Here  two  friends  had  dozed 
Together,  weaving  mogra-buds,  which  bound 
Their  sister-sweetness   in   a  starry   chain. 
Linking  them  limb  to  limb  and  heart  to  heart. 
One  pillowed  on  the  blossoms,  one  on  her. 
Another,  ere  she  slept,  was  stringing  stones 
To  make  a  necklet — agate,  onyx,  sard. 
Coral  and  moonstone — round  her  wrist  it  gleamed 

125 


EDWIN    ARNOLD 

A  coil  of  splendid  color,  while  she  held, 

Unthreaded  yet,  the  bead  to  close  it  up 

Green  turkis,  carved  with  golden  gods  and  scripts. 

Lulled  by  the  cadence  of  the  garden  stream, 

Thus  lay  they  on  the  clustered  carpets,  each 

A  girlish  rose  with  shut  leaves,  waiting  dawn 

To  open  and  make  daylight  beautiful. 

This  was  the  antechamber  of  the  prince; 

But  at  the  purdah's  fringe  the  sweetest  slept — 

Gunga  and   Gotami — chief  ministers 

In  that  still  house  of  love. 

The  purdah  hung. 
Crimson  and  blue,  with  broidered  threads  of  gold, 
Across   a   portal   carved   in   sandal   wood. 
Whence  by  three  steps  the  way  was  to  the  bower 
Of  inmost  splendor,  and  the  marriage-couch 
Set  on  dais  soft  with  silver  cloths, 
Where  the  foot  fell  as  though  it  trod  on  piles 
Of  neem-blooms.    All  the  walls  were  plates  of  peari. 
Cut  shapely  from  the  shells  of  Lanka's  wave; 
And  o'er  the  alabaster  roof  there  ran 
Rich  inlayings  of  lotus  and  of  bird. 
Wrought  in  skilled  work  of  lazulite  and  jade, 
Jacynth  and  jasper;  woven  round  the  dome. 
And  down  the  sides,  and  all  about  the  frames 
Wherein  were  set  the  fretted  lattices. 
Through  which  there  breathed,  with  moonlight  and 

cool  airs. 
Scents  from  the  shell  flowers  and  the  jasmine  sprays 
Not  bringing  thither  grace  or  tenderness 
Sweeter  than  shed  from  those  fair  presences 
Within  the  place — the  beauteous  Sakya  prince, 
And  hers,  the  stately,  bright  Yasodhara. 

Half  risen  from  her  soft  nest  at  his  side. 
The  chuddah  fallen  to  her  waist,  her  brow 
Laid  in  both  palms,  the  lovely  princess  leaned 
With  heaving  bosom  and  fast  falling  tears. 

126 


THE    LIGHT    OF    ASIA 

Thrice  with  her  lips  she  touclied  Siddartha's  hand, 
And  at  the  third  kiss  moaned,  "  Awake,  my  Lord  ! 
Give  me  the  comfort  of  thy  speech  !  "     Then  he— 
"  What  is  it  with  thee,  O  my  life  ?  "  but  still 
She  moaned  anew  before  the  words  would  come; 
Then  spake,  "  Alas,  my  prince !     I  sank  to  sleep 
Most  happy,  for  the  babe  I  bear  of  thee 
Quickened  this  eye,  and  at  my  heart  there  beat 
That  double  pulse  of  life  and  joy  and  love; 
Whose  happy  music  lulled  me,  but — ah  ! — 
In  slumber  I  beheld  three  sights  of  dread, 
With  thought  whereof  my  heart  is  throbbing  yet. 
I  saw  a  white  bull  with  wide  branching  horns, 
A  lord  of  pastures,  pacing  through  the  streets. 
Bearing  upon  his  front  a  gem  which  shone 
As  if  some  star  had  dropped  to  glitter  there. 
Or  like  the  kantha-stone  the  great  snake  keeps 
To  make  bright  daylight  underneath  the  earth. 
Slow  through  the  streets  toward  the  gates  he  paced. 
And  none  could  stay  him,  though  there  came  a  voice 
From  Indra's  temple,  'If  ye  stay  him    not. 
The  glory  of  the  city  goeth  forth.' 
Yet  none  could  stay  him.    Then  I  wept  aloud, 
And  locked  my  arms  about  his  neck,  and  strove 
And  bade  them  bar  the  gates;  but  that  ox-king 
Bellowed,  and  lightly  tossing  free  his  crest. 
Broke  from  my  clasp,  and  bursting  through  the  barSs 
Trampled  the  warders  down  and  passed  away. 
The  next  strange  dream  was  this:   Four  presences 
Splendid,  with  shining  eyes,  so  beautiful 
They  seemed  the  regents  of  the  earth  who  dweU 
On  mount  Sumeru,  lighting  from  the  sky 
With  retinue  of  countless  heavenly  ones, 
Swift  swept  unto  our  city,  where  I  saw 
The  golden  flag  of  Indra  on  the  gate 
Flutter  and  fall ;  and  lo !  there  rose  instead 
A  glorious  banner,  all  the  folds  whereof 
Rippled  with  flasliing  fire  of  rubies  sewn 
127 


EDWIN    ARNOLD 

Thick  on  the  silver  threads,  the  rays  wherefrom 
Set  forth  new  words  and  weighty  sentences 
Whose  message  made  all  li%'ing  creatures  glad; 
And  from  the  east  the  wind  of  sunrise  blew 
With  tender  waft,  opening  those  jeweled  scrolls 
So  that  all  iiesh  might  read;  and  wondrous  blooms — 
Plucked  in  what  clime  I  know  not — fell  in  showers, 
Colored  as  none  are  colored  in  our  groves." 

Then  spake  the  prince:   "  All  this,  my  lotus  flower: 
Was  good  to  see,"     "  Ah  lord,"  the  princess  said, 
"  Save  that  it  ended  with  a  voice  of  fear 
Crying,  '  The  time  is  nigh !    the  time  is  nigh !  * 
Thereat  the  third  dream  came;  for  then  I  sought 
Thy  side,  sweet  Lord!  ah,  on  our  bed  there  lay 
An  unpressed  pillow  and  an  empty  robe — 
Nothing  of  thee  but  those! — nothing  of  thee. 
Who  art  my  life  and  light,  my  king,  my  world  I 
And  sleeping  still  I  rose,  and  sleeping  saw 
Thy  belt  of  pearls,  tied  here  below  my  breasts. 
Change  to  a  stinging  snake;  my  ankle-rings 
Fall  oflF,  my  golden  bangles  part  and  fall; 
The  jasmines  in  my  hair  wither  to  dust; 
While  this  our  bridal-couch  sank  to  the  ground. 
And  something  rent  the  crimson  purdah  down; 
Then  far  away  I  heard  the  white  bull  low, 
And  far  away  the  embroidered  banner  flap, 
And  once  again  that  cry  'The  time  is  come.'' 
But  with  that  cry — which  shakes  my  spirit  still — 
I  woke!    O  prince!  what  may  such  visions  mean 
Except  I  die,  or — worse  than  any  death — 
Thou  shouldst  forsake  me  or  be  taken?" 

Sweet 
As  the  last  smile  of  sunset  was  the  look 
Siddartha  bent  upon  his  weeping  wife. 
"  Comfort  thee,  dear  ! "  he  said,  "  if  comfort  lives 
In  changeless  love;  for  though  thy  dreams  may  be 
Shadow  of  things  to  come,  and  though  the  gods 

128 


HE    AND    SHE 


Are  shaken  in  their  seats,  and  though  the  world 
Stands  nigh,  perchance,  to  know  some  way  of  help. 
Yet,  whatsoever  fall  to  thee  and  ine. 
Be  sure  I  loved  and  love  Yasddhara." 


HE    AND    SHE 

SHE  is  dead  !"  they  said  to  him:  "come  away  ; 
Kiss  her  and  leave  her, — thy  love  is  clay  I" 

They  smoothed  her  tresses  of  dark-brown  hair; 
On  her  forehead  of  marble  they  laid  it  fair  ; 

Over  her  eyes  that  gazed  too  much 
They  drew  the  lids  with  a  gentle  touch  ; 

With  a  tender  touch  they  closed  up  well 
The  sweet  thin  lips  that  had  secrets  to  tell  ; 

About  her  brows  and  beautiful  face 
They  tied  her  veil  and  her  marriage  lace. 

And  drew  on  her  white  feet  her  white-silk  shoes,— 
Which  were  the  whitest  no  eye  could  choose, — 

And  over  her  bosom  they  crossed  her  hands, 
"  Come  away  ! "  they  said,  "  God  understands." 

And  there  was  silence,  and  nothing  there 
But  silence,  and  scents  of  eglantere. 

And  jasmine,  and  roses  and  rosemary  ; 

And  they  said,  "  As  a  lady  should  lie,  lies  she." 

And  they  held  their  breath  till  they  left  the  room. 
With  a  shudder,  to  glance  at  its  stillness  and  gloom. 


EDWIN    ARNOLD 

But  he  who  loved  her  too  well  to  dread 
The  sweet,  the  stately,  the  beautiful  dead. 

He  lit  his  lamp,  and  took  the  key 
And  turned  it — alone  again,  he  and  she. 

He  and  she;  but  she  would  not  speak. 

Though  he  kissed,  in  the  old  place,  the  quiet  cheek. 

He  and  she;  yet  she  would  not  smile. 

Though  he  called  her  the  name  she  loved  erewhile. 

He  and  she;  still  she  did  not  move 
To  any  passionate  whisper  of  love. 

Then  he  said,  "  Cold  lips  and  breasts  without  breath. 
Is  there  no  voice,  no  language  of  death, 

"  Dumb  to  the  ear  and  still  to  the  sense, 
But  to  heart  and  to  soul  distinct,  intense? 

"  See,  now;  I  will  listen  with  soul,  not  ear  : 
What  was  the  secret  of  dying,  dear  ? 

"  Was  it  the  infinite  wonder  of  all 
That  you  ever  could  let  life's  flower  fall? 

"  Or  was  it  a  greater  marvel  to  feel 
The  perfect  calm  o'er  the  agony  steal  ? 

"  Was  the  miracle  greater  to  find  how  deep 
Beyond  all  dreams  sank  downward  that  sleep  ? 

"  Did  life  roll  back  its  record  dear. 

And  show,  as  they  say  it  does,  past  things  clear? 

"  And  was  it  the  innermost  heart  of  the  bliss 
To  find  out  so,  what  a  wisdom  love  is  ? 

**0  perfect  dead!     O  dead  most  dear  ! 
I  hold  the  breath  of  my  soul  to  hear. 

130 


HE    AND    SHE 

•*  I  listen  as  deep  as  to  horrible  hell, 

As  high  as  to  heaven,  and  you  do  not  tell. 

"  There  must  be  pleasure  in  dying,  sweet. 
To  make  you  so  placid  from  head  to  feet  1 

"  I  would  tell  you,  darling,  if  I  were  dead. 

And  't  were  your  hot  tears  upon  my  brow  shed, — 

"  I  would  say,  though  the  Angel  of  Death  had  laid 
His  sword  on  my  lips  to  keep  it  unsaid, — 

"You  should  not  ask  vainly,  with  streaming  eyes, 
Which  of  all  deaths  was  the  chiefest  surprise. 

"  The  very  strangest  and  suddenest  thing 
Of  all  the  surprises  that  dying  must   bring." 

Ah,  foolish  world !    O  most  kind  dead ! 

Though  he  told  me,  who  will  believe  it  was  said? 

Who  will  believe  that  he  heard  her  say, 

With  the  sweet,  soft  voice,  in  the  dear  old  way, 

"  The  utmost  wonder  is  this, — I  hear 

And  see  you,  and  love  you,  and  kiss  you,  dear; 

"  I  am  your  angel,  who  was  your  bride, 

And  know  that  though  dead,  I  have  never  died.*^ 

A    HOME    SONG 

(Swanscombe,  April  1857) 

THE  swallow  is  come  from  his  African  home 
I'o  build  on  the  English  eaves; 
The  sycamore  wears  all  his  glistening  spears. 

And  the  almond  rains  roseate  leaves; 
And,  dear  Love  !  with  thee,  as  with  bird  and  with 
tree 
'Tis  the  time  of  blossom  and  nest, 
Then,  what  good  thing  of  the  bountiful  Spring 
Shall  I  liken  to  thee— the  best  ? 

131 


EDWIN    ARNOLD 

i 

Over  the  streamlet  the  rose-bushes  bend 

Clouded  with  tender  green. 

And  green  the  buds  grow  upon  every  bough,  ] 

Though  as  yet  no  rose-tint  is  seen;  j 

L<ike  those,  thou  art  come  to  thy  promise  of  bloom;  i 

Like  theirs,  thine  shunneth  the  light;  j 

Break,  rose-bud  ! — and  let  a  longing  heart  know  j 

If  the  blossom  be  red  or  white!  ! 

i 

Up  the  broad  river  with  swelling  sails  ) 

A  glorious  vessel  goes,  j 

And  not  more  clear  in  the  soft  blue  air  j 

Than  in  the  still  water  she  shows!  i 

Uost  thou  not  go  with  as  brave  a  show,  \ 

And,  sooth,  with  as  swelling  a  state? 

Oh,  come  into  harbor  with  that  thou  bear'st,  < 

Dear  ship ! — for  I  eagerly  wait.  j 

\ 

Fair  ship ! — ah,  Kate !  none  beareth  a  freight  I 

As  precious  and  rich  as  thine,  i 

And  Where's   the  rose-bush  that  will  burgeon  and  ; 

blush  j 

With  a  blossom  like  thine  and  mine  ?  ] 

Well !    Well !  we  do  as  the  meadow-birds  too,  j 

Since  meadows  with  gold  were  dyed,  ^ 

The  hen  sits  at  rest  in  the  hidden  nest.  j 

And  her  mate  sings  glad  at  her  side.  > 


N 


THE    RAJAH'S      RIDE 

(A  Punjab  Song) 

OW  is  the  devil-horse  come  to  Sindh  f 
Wah!  wah!     Gooroo! — that  is  true! 
Now  is  the  devil-horse  come  to  Sindh  ! 

Wah !    wah !    Gooroo ! — that  is  true ! 
His  belly  is  stuffed  with  the  fire  and  the  wind. 
But  a  fleeter  steed  had  Runjeet  Dehu  1 

132 


THE    RAJAH  S    RIDE 

It's  forty  koss  from  Lahore  to  the  ford 
Forty  and  more  to  far  Jummoo; 

Fast  may  go  the  Feringhee  lord. 

But  never  so  fast  as  Runjeet  Dehu  " 

Runjeet  Dehu  was  King  of  the  Hill, 

Lord  and  eagle  of  every  crest; 
Now  the  swords  and  the  spears  are  still, 

God  will  have  it — and  God  knows  best! 

Rajah  Runjeet  sate  in  the  sky. 
Watching  the  loaded   Kafilas  in; 

Affghan,  Kashmeree,  passing  by, 
Paid  him  pushm  to  save  their  skin. 

Once  he  caracoled  into  the  plain, 
Wah!  the  sparkle  of  steel  on  steel  ! 

And  up  the  pass  came  singing  again 
With  a  lakh  of  silver  borne  at  his  heel. 

Once  he  trusted  the  Mussulman's  word, 

Wah !  wah !  trust  a  liar  to  lie ! 
Down  from  his  eyrie  they  tempted  my  Bird, 

And  clipped  his  wings  that  he  could  not  fly. 

Ten  months  Runjeet  lay  in  Lahore — • 
Fast  by  the  gate  at  the  Runchenee  Pul; 

Sad  was  the  soul  of  Chunda  Kour, 
Glad  the  merchants   of  rich   Kurnool. 

Ten  months  Runjeet  lay  in  Lahore — 

Wah !  a  hero's  heart  is  brass ! 
Ten  months  never  did  Chunda  Kour 

Braid  her  hair  at  the  tiring-glass. 

There  came  a  steed  from  Toorkistan, 

Wah!  God  made  him  to  match  the  hawkt 

Fast  beside  him  the  four  grooms  ran. 
To  keep  abreast  of  the  Toorkman's  walk. 

13? 


EDWIN    ARNOLD 

Black  as  the  bear  on  Iskardoo; 

Savage  at  heart  as  a  tiger  chained; 
Fleeter  than  hawk  that  ever  flew, 

Never  a  Muslim  could  ride  him  reined. 

**  Runjeet  Dehu!  come  forth  from  thy  hold" — 
Wah !  ten  months  had  rusted  his  chain  I 

"  Ride  this    Sheitan's    liver    cold " — 
Runjeet  twisted  his  hand  in  the  mane; 

Runjeet  sprang  to  the  Toorkman's  back, 

Wah!  a  king  on  a  kingly  throne! 
Snort,  black  Sheitan!  till  nostrils  crack. 

Rajah   Runjeet  sits,  a  stone. 

Three  times  round  the  maidan  he  rode, 
Touched  its  neck  at  the  Kashmere  wall. 

Struck  the  spurs  till  they  spurted  blood. 
Leapt  the  rampart  before  them  all! 

Breasted  the  waves  of  the  blue  Ravee, 

Forty  horsemen  mounting  behind. 
Forty  bridle-chains  flung  free, 

Wah !  wah !  better  chase  the  wind ! 

Chunda  Kour  sate  sad  in  Jummoo: — 
Hark!  what  horse-hoof  echoes  without? 

"Rise!  and  welcome  Runjeet  Dehu — 
Wash  the  Toorkman's  nostrils  out! 

*' ^Ofty  koss  he  has  come,  my  life! 

/orty  koss  back  he  must  carry  me; 
Rajah   Runjeet  visits  his  wife, 

He  steals  no  steed  like  an  Afreedee. 


"  They  bade  me  teach  them  how  to  ride — 
Wah !  wah !  now  I  have  taught  them  well  I 

Chunda  Kour  sank  low  at  his  side; 
Rajah  Runjeet  rode  the  hill. 

J34 


THE    RAJAH  S    rlDB. 

When  he  came  back  to  far  Lahore — 

Long  or  ever  the  night  began 
Spake  he,  "  Take  your  horse  once  more, 

He  carries  well — when  he  bears  a  man  I" 

Then  they  gave  him  a  khillut  and  gold. 
All  for  his  honor  and  grace  and  truth; 

Send  him  back  to  his  mountain-hold — 
Muslim  manners  have  touch  of  ruth; 

Send  him  back,  with  dances  and  drum 
Wah !  my  Rajah  Runjeet  Dehu ! 

To  Chunda  Kour  and  his  Juramoo  home — 
Wah !  wah !  Futtee ! — wah,  Gooroo ! 


135 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Matthew  Arnold,  English  essayist  and  poet, 
son  of  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold,  of  Rugby,  born  in 
1S22;  died  at  Liverpool,  1888.  He  graduated  from 
Oxford  with  honors,  receiving  a  prize  for  his  poem 
"Cromwell."  In  1857  he  was  elected  Professor  of 
Poetry  at  Oxford.  His  prose  works  cover  many 
subjects,  those  dealing  with  theology  being  the  best 
known. 

THE   FORSAKEN    MERMAN 

(The  MacMillan  Co.,  Publishers) 

COME,  dear  children,  let  us  away; 
Down  and  away  below! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shorewards  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seawards  flow; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away! 
This  way,  this  way! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go — 

Call  once  yet. 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know: 

*  Margaret !  Margaret !' 

Children's  voices  should  be  dear 

(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear; 

Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain — 

Surely  she  will  come  again! 

Call  her  once,  and  come  away; 

This  way,  this  way ! 

'Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay!' 


THE    FORSAKEN    MERMAN 

The  vrild  white  horses  foam  and  fret. 
Margaret !     Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down! 

Call  no  more. 

One  last  look  at  the  white-walled  town. 

And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  shore; 

Then  come  down! 

She  will  not  come!  though  you  call  all  day; 

Come  away,  come  away! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay? 

In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 

Through  the  surf  and  through  the  sweU, 

The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell? 

Sand-strewn   caverns,  cool   and  deep, 

Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep ; 

Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam. 

Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream. 

Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round. 

Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground; 

Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twinej 

Dry  their  mail,  and  bask  in  the  brine; 

Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by. 

Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 

Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye? 

When  did  music  come  this  way? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children   dear,  was  it  yesterday 
(CaU  yet  once)   that  she  went  away? 
Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me. 
On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea. 
And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 
She  combed  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well. 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  tne  far-off  bell. 
She  sighed,  she  looked  up  through  the  clear  green 
sea; 

137 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

She  said:  "I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 

In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 

'Twill  be  Eayter-time  in  the  world — ah  me! 

And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman !  here  with  thee." 

I  said :  "  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves ; 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea- 
caves  !" 

She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the 
bay. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone? 
"  The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan ! 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "  in  the  world  they  say ; 
Come!"  I  said;  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in  the 

bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where    the    sea-stocks    bloom,    to    the    white-walled 

town; 
Through  the  narrow  paved   streets,   where  all   was 

still. 
To  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at  their 

prayers. 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing  airs. 
We  climbed  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones  worn  with 

rains, 
A.nd  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small  leaaed 

panes. 
She  sate  by  the  pillar;  we  saw  her  clear: 
*  Margaret,  hist!   come  quick,  we  are  here! 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "  we  are  long  alone. 
The  sea  grows  storm)%  the  little  ones  moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look. 
For  her  eyes  were  sealed  to  the  holy  book! 
Loud  prays  the  priest !  shut  stands  the  door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more! 
138 


THE    FORSAKEN    MERMAN 

Down,  down,  down ! 
Down  to  the  depths   of  the  sea! 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town. 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings:    "O  joy,  O  joy. 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its  toy! 
For  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy  well; 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun. 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun!" 
And  so  she  sings  her  fill. 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand. 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window  and  looks  at  the  sand^ 
And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea; 
And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare; 
And    anon   there   breaks   a  sigh. 
And  anon  there  drops  a  tear. 
From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye. 
And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 
A  long,  long  sigh; 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children; 
Come  children,  come  down! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  coldly; 
Lights  shine  Ir  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling. 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing  "  Here  came  a  mortal. 
But  faithless  was  she; 

139 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

And  alone  dwell  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea," 

But,  children,  at  midnight. 

When  soft  the  winds  blow; 

When  clear  faUs  the  moonlight. 

When  spring-tides  are  low; 

When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 

From  heaths  starred  with  broom, 

And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 

On   the  blanched   sands  a  gloom; 

Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches. 

Up  the  creeks  we  wiU  hie; 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 

We   will    gaze,    from    the   sand-hills. 

At   the   white,    sleeping   town; 

At   the   church   on   the  hill-side — 

And  then  come  back  down. 

Singing,  "There  dwells  a  loved  one, 

But  cruel  is  she! 

She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 

MEMORIAL    VERSES 

(JS50) 

GOETHE  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  ceasc^ 
But  one  such  death  remained  to  come; 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb — 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb. 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death. 
We  bowed  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little;  but  our  soul 
Had  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law; 

un 


MEMORIAL    VERSES 

And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watched  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  served  for  that  Titanic  strife. 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said,— 
Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 
Physician  of  the  iron  age, 
Goethe  had  done  his  pilgrimage. 
He  took  the  suffering  human  race. 

He  read  each  Vv-^ound,  each  weakness  clearj 
And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place. 

And  said:    Thou  ailest  here,  and  here  I 
He  looked  on  Europe's  dying  hour 
Of  fitful  dream  and   feverish  power; 
His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 
The  turmoil   of  expiring  life — 
He  said.  The  end  is  everywhere. 
Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there! 
And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 
Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 
His   feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 
Of  terror,   and   insane  distress. 
And  headlong  fate,  be  happinesss. 

And  Wordsworth! — Ah,  pale  ghosts,  rejoice  I 
For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your   shado^^y  world   conveyed. 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 
Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  glocwn. 
Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us — and  ye. 
Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we! 
He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen — on  this  iron  time 

Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round; 

He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 

141 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth. 
On  the  cool,  flowery  lap  of  earth. 
Smiles  broke   from  us   and  we  had   ease; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sunlit  fields  again; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain, 
Our  youth  returned;  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead. 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furled, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah!  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's   prudence   and   man's    fiery   might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordsworth's   healing  power? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 

And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel; 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear — 

But  who,  ah !  who,  will  make  us  feel? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly — 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by? 
Keep   fresh  the  grass  upon  his   grave, 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave! 
Sing  him  thy  best !  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 

A    FINAL    WORD    ON    AMERICA 

(From  an  essay  in  the  Nineteenth  Century) 

SIR  HENRY  MAINE,  in  an  admirable  essay 
which,  though  not  signed,  betrays  him  for  its 
author  by  its  rare  and  characteristic  qualities  of 
mind  and  stj^le — Sir  Henry  Maine  in  the  Quarterly 
Review  adopts  and  often  reiterates  a  phrase  of  M. 
Scherer,  to  the  effect  that  "democracy  is  only  a  form 
143 


A    FINAL    WORD    ON    AMERICA 

of  government."  He  holds  up  to  ridicule  a  sen- 
tence of  Mr.  Bancroft's  "  History,"  in  which  the 
American  democracy  is  told  that  its  ascent  to  power 
"proceeded  as  uniformly  and  majestically  as  the 
laws  of  being,  and  was  as  certain  as  the  degrees  of 
eternity."  Let  us  be  willing  to  give  Sir  Henry  Maine 
his  way  and  to  allow  no  magnificent  claim  of  this 
kind  on  behalf  of  the  American  democracy.  Let  us 
treat  as  not  more  solid  the  assertion  in  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  that  "  all  men  are  created 
equal,  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain 
inalienable  rights,  among  them  life,  liberty,  and  the 
pursuit  of  happiness."  Let  us  concede  that  these 
natural  rights  are  a  figment;  that  chance  and  cir- 
cumstance, as  much  as  deliberate  foresight  and  de- 
sign, have  brought  the  United  States  into  their 
present  condition,  that  moreover  the  British  rule 
which  they  threw  oif  was  not  the  rule  of  oppressors 
and  tyrants  which  declaimers  suppose;  and  that  the 
merit  of  the  Americans  was  not  that  of  oppressed 
men  rising  against  tyrants,  but  rather  of  sensible 
young  people  getting  rid  of  stupid  and  overweening 
guardians  who  misunderstood  and  mismanaged  them. 
All  this  let  us  concede,  if  we  will;  but  in  con- 
ceding it  let  us  not  lose  sight  of  the  really  im- 
portant point,  which  is  this:  that  their  institutions 
do  in  fact  suit  the  people  of  the  United  States  so 
well,  and  that  from  this  suitableness  they  do  derive 
so  much  actual  benefit.  As  one  watches  the  play  of 
their  institutions,  the  image  suggests  itself  to  one's 
mind  of  a  man  in  a  suit  oi  clothes  which  fits  him 
to  perfection,  leaving  all  his  movements  unimpeded 
and  easy.  It  is  loose  where  it  ought  to  be  loose, 
and  it  sits  close  where  its  sitting  close  is  an  ad- 
vantage. The  central  government  of  the  United 
States  keeps  in  its  own  hands  those  functions  which, 
if  the  nation  is  to  have  real  unity,  ought  to  be  kept 
there;  those  functions  it  takes  to  itself  and  no  others. 
143 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

The  State  governments  and  the  municipal  govern- 
ments provide  people  with  the  fullest  liberty  of  man- 
aging their  own  affairs,  and  afford,  besides,  a  con- 
stant and  invaluable  school  of  practical  experience. 
This  wonderful  suit  of  clothes,  again  (to  recur  to 
our  image),  is  found  also  to  adapt  itself  naturally 
to  the  wearer's  growth,  and  to  admit  of  all  enlarge- 
ments as  they  successively  arise.  I  speak  of  the 
state  of  things  since  the  suppression  of  slavery,  of 
the  state  of  things  which  meets  a  spectator's  eye  at 
the  present  time  in  America.  There  are  points  in 
which  the  institutions  of  the  United  States  may  call 
forth  criticism.  One  observer  may  think  that  it 
would  be  well  if  the  President's  term  of  office  were 
longer,  if  his  ministers  sat  in  Congress  or  must  pos- 
sess the  confidence  of  Congress.  Another  observer 
may  say  that  the  marriage  laws  for  the  whole  nation 
ought  to  be  fixed  by  Congress,  and  not  to  vary  at 
the  will  of  the  legislatures  of  the  several  States.  I 
myself  was  much  struck  with  the  inconvenience  of 
not  allowing  a  man  to  sit  in  Congress  except  for 
his  own  district;  a  man  like  Wendell  Phillips  was 
thus  excluded,  because  Boston  would  not  return  him. 
It  is  as  if  Mr.  Bright  could  have  no  other  constitu- 
ency open  to  him  if  Rochdale  would  not  send  him 
to  Parliament.  But  all  these  are  really  questions  of 
machinery  (to  use  my  own  term),  and  ought  not 
so  to  engage  our  attention  as  to  prevent  our  seeing 
that  the  capital  fact  as  to  the  institutions  of  the 
United  States  is  this:  their  suitableness  to  the  Ameri- 
can people  and  their  natural  and  easy  working.  If  we 
are  not  to  be  allowed  to  say,  with  Mr.  Beecher,  that 
this  people  has  "  a  genius  for  the  organization  of 
States,"  then  at  all  events  we  must  admit  that  in  its 
own  organization  it  has  enjoyed  the  most  signal  good 
fortune. 


144 


THE    REAL    BURNS 


THE    REAL    BURNS 

BY  his  English  poetry  Burns  in  general  belongs 
to  the  eighteenth  century,  and  has  little  im- 
portance for  us. 

"  Mark  ruffian  violence,  distain'd  with  crimes. 
Rousing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times; 
View  unsuspecting  Innocence  a  prey, 
As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way; 
While  subtle  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 
The  lifeblood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and  Wrong  !" 

Evidently  this  is  not  the  real  Burns,  or  his  name 
and  fame  would  have  disappeared  long  ago.  Nor  is 
Clarinda's  love  poet,  Sylvander,  the  real  Burns  either. 
But  he  tells  us  himself:  "  These  English  songs  gravei 
me  to  death.  I  have  not  the  command  of  the  lan- 
guage that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue.  In  fact,  I 
think  that  my  ideas  are  more  barren  in  English  than 
in  Scotch.  I  have  been  at  '  Duncan  Gray  '  to  dress  it 
in  English,  but  all  I  can  do  is  desperately  stupid." 
We  English  turn  naturally,  in  Burns,  to  the  poems 
in  our  own  language,  because  we  can  read  them 
easily;  but  in  those  poems  we  have  not  the  real 
Burns. 

The  real  Burns  is  of  course  in  his  Scotch  poems. 
Let  us  boldly  say  that  of  much  of  this  poetry,  a 
poetry  dealing  perpetually  with  Scotch  drink,  Scotch 
religion,  and  Scotch  manners,  a  Scotchman's  esti- 
mate is  apt  to  be  personal.  A  Scotchman  is  used  to 
this  world  of  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion,  and 
Scotch  manners;  he  has  a  tenderness  for  it;  he 
meets  his  poet  half  way.  In  this  tender  mood  he 
reads  pieces  like  the  "  Holy  Fair  "  or  "  Hallowe'en." 
But  this  world  of  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion,  and 
Scotch  manners  is  against  a  poet,  not  for  him,  whoi 
it  is  not  a  partial  countrj'^man  who  reads  him;  for  in 

145 


MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

'tself  it  is  not  a  beautiful  world,  and  no  one  cah 
deny  that  it  is  of  advantage  to  a  poet  to  deal  with 
a  beautiful  world.  Burns's  world  of  Scotch  drink, 
Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  manners  is  often  a  harsh, 
a  sordid,  a  repulsive  world;  even  the  world  of  his 
**  Cotter's  Saturday  Night "  is  not  a  beautiful  world. 
No  doubt  a  poet's  criticism  of  life  may  have  such 
truth  and  power  that  it  triumphs  over  its  world  and 
delights  us.  Burns  may  triumph  over  his  world; 
often  he  does  triumph  over  his  world,  but  let  us 
observe  how  and  where.  Burns  is  the  first  case  we 
have  had  where  the  bias  of  the  personal  estimate 
tends  to  mislead;  let  us  look  at  him  closely,  he  can 
bear  it. 

Many  of  his  admirers  will  tell  us  that  we  have 
Burns,  convivial,  genuine,  delightful,  here: 

"  Leeze  me  on  drink !    it  gies  us  mair 
Than  either  school  or  college; 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair. 

It  pangs  us  fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be't  whisky  gill  or  penny  wheep 

Or   any   stronger   potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep. 
To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day." 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing  in 
Burns,  and  it  is  unsatisfactory,  not  because  it  is 
bacchanalian  poetry,  but  because  it  has  not  that  ac- 
cent of  sincerity  which  bacchanalian  poetry,  to  do  it 
justice,  very  often  has.  There  is  something  in  it  of 
bravado,  something  which  makes  us  feel  that  we 
have  not  the  man  speaking  to  us  with  his  real  voice; 
something,  therefore,  poetically  unsound. 

With  still  more  confidence  will  his  admirers  tell 
us  that  we  have  the  genuine  Burns,  the  great  poet, 
when  his  strain  asserts  the  independence,  equality, 
dignity,  of  men,  as  in  the  famous  song,  "  For  a'  that 
and  a'  that": 


THE    REAL    BURNS 

"A  prince  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 
A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that  ! 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that 

Their  dignities  and  a'  that, 
The  pith   o'   sense  and   pride  o'   worth 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that." 

Here  they  find  his  grand,  genuine  touches;  and 
still  more,  when  this  puissant  genius,  who  so  ofteD 
set  morality  at  defiance,  falls  moralizing: 

"  The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love 

Luxuriantly    indulge    it ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it. 
I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  o'  concealing. 
But  och !  it  hardens  a'  within, 

And   petrifies   the   feeling." 

Or  in  a  higher  strain: 

"Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone* 

Each  spring,  its  various  bia( 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mutt^ 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute. 

But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

Or  in  a  better  strain  yet,  a  strain,  his  admirers  wiU 
say,  unsurpassable: 

"  To    make    a    happy    fireside    clime 
To  weans  and  wife. 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life." 

147 


MxYTTHEW    ARNOLD 

There  is  criticism  of  life  for  you,  the  admirers  of 
Burns  will  say  to  us ;  there  is  the  application  of  ideas 
to  life!  There  is,  undoubtedly.  The  doctrine  of  the 
last-quoted  lines  coincides  almost  exactly  with  what 
was  the  aim  and  end,  Xenophon  tells  us,  of  all  the 
teaching  of  Socrates.  And  the  application  is  a  pow- 
erful one;  made  by  a  man  of  \igorous  understand- 
ing, and  (need  I  say?)  a  master  of  language. 

But  for  supreme  poetical  success  more  is  re- 
quired than  the  powerful  application  of  ideas  to  life; 
it  must  be  an  application  under  the  conditions  fixed 
by  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty.  Those 
laws  fix  as  an  essential  condition,  in  the  poet's  treat- 
ment of  such  matters  as  are  here  in  question,  high 
seriousness — the  high  seriousness  which  comes  from 
absolute  sincerity.  The  accent  of  high  seriousness, 
born  of  absolute  sincerity,  is  what  gives  to  such 
verse  as 

"  In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace.  ..." 

to  such  criticism  of  life  as  Dante's  its  power.  Is 
this  accent  felt  in  the  passages  which  I  have  been 
quoting  from  Burns?  Surely  not;  surely;  if  our 
sense  is  quick,  we  must  perceive  that  we  have  not  in 
those  passages  a  voice  from  the  very  inmost  soul  of 
the  genuine  Burns;  he  is  not  speaking  to  us  from 
these  depths,  he  is  more  or  less  preaching.  And  the 
compensation  for  admiring  such  passages  less,  from 
missing  the  perfect  poetic  accent  in  them,  will  be 
that  we  shall  admire  more  the  poetry  where  that 
accent  is  found. 

No;  Burns,  like  Chaucer,  comes  short  of  the  high 
seriousness  of  the  great  classics,  and  the  virtue  of 
matter  and  manner  which  goes  with  that  high  seri- 
ousness is  wanting  to  his  work.  At  moments  he 
touches  it  in  a  profound  and  passionate  melancholy, 
as  in  those  four  immortal  lines  taken  by  Byron  as  a 
motto  for  "The  Giaour,"  but  which  have  in  them 

14A 


THE    REAL    BURNS 

a  depth  of  poetic  quality  such  as  resides  in  no  verse 
of  Byron's  own: 

"  Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly. 
Never  met,  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted.'* 

But  a  whole  poem  of  that  quality  Burns  cannot 
make ;  the  rest,  in  the  "  Farewell  to  Nancy,"  is  ver- 
Mage. 

We  arrive  best  at  the  real  estimate  of  Burns,  I 
think,  by  conceiving  his  work  as  having  truth  of  mat- 
ter and  truth  of  manner,  but  not  the  accent  of  the 
poetic  virtue  of  the  highest  masters.  His  genuine 
criticism  of  life,  when  the  sheer  poet  in  him  speaks, 
is  ironic;  it  is  not: 

"  Thou  Power  Supreme  whose  mighty  scheme 
These  woes  of  mine  fulfil. 
Here  firm  I  rest,  they  must  be  best 
Because  they  are  Thy  will ! " 

It  is  far  rather,  "  Whistle  owre  the  lave  o't ! "  Yet 
we  may  say  of  him  as  of  Chaucer,  that  of  life  and 
the  world,  as  they  come  before  him,  his  view  is 
large,  free,  shrewd,  benignant — truly  poetic,  there- 
fore; and  his  manner  of  rendering  what  he  sees  is 
to  match.  But  we  must  note,  at  the  same  time,  his 
great  difference  from  Chaucer.  The  freedom  of 
Chaucer  is  heightened,  in  Burns,  by  a  fiery,  reckless 
energy;  the  benignity  of  Chaucer  deepens,  in  Burns, 
into  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  pathos  of  things — 
of  the  pathos  of  human  nature,  the  pathos,  also,  of 
non-human  nature.  Instead  of  the  fluidity  of  Chau- 
cer's manner,  the  manner  of  Burns  has  spring,  bound- 
ing swiftness.  Burns  is  by  far  the  greater  force, 
though  he  has  perhaps  less  charm.  The  world  of 
Chaucer  is  fairer,  richer,  more  significant  than  that 
of  Burns;  but  when  the  largeness  and  freedom  of 

149 


I^ATTHEW    ARNOLD 

Burns  get  full  sweep,  as  in  "Tarn  o'  Shanter,"  or 
still  more  in  that  puissant  and  splendid  production, 
"  The  Jolly  Beggars,"  his  world  may  be  what  it  will, 
his  poetic  genius  triumphs  over  it.  In  the  world  of 
"  The  Jolly  Beggars "  there  is  more  than  hideous- 
ness  and  squalor,  there  is  bestiality;  yet  the  piece  is 
a  superb  poetic  success.  It  has  a  breadth,  truth,  and 
power  which  make  the  famous  scene  in  Auerbach's 
cellar,  of  Goethe's  "  Faust,"  seem  artificial  and  tame 
beside  it,  and  which  are  only  matched  by  Shakespeare 
and  Aristophanes. 

Here,  where  his  largeness  and  freedom  serve  him 
so  admirably,  and  also  in  those  poems  and  songs, 
where  to  shrewdness  he  adds  infinite  archness  and 
wit,  and  to  benignity  infinite  pathos,  where  his  man- 
ner is  flawless,  and  a  perfect  poetic  whole  is  the  re- 
sult— in  things  like  the  addresss  to  the  mouse  whose 
home  he  had  ruined ;  in  things  like  "  Duncan  Gray," 
"Tam  Glen,"  "Whistle,  and  I'll  Come  to  You,  My 
Lad,"  "  Auld  Lang  Syne "  (the  list  might  be  made 
much  longer) — here  we  have  the  genuine  Burns,  of 
whom  the  real  estimate  must  be  high  indeed.  Not  a 
classic,  nor  with  the  excellent  spondaiotas  of  the 
great  classics,  nor  with  a  verse  rising  to  a  criticism 
of  life  and  a  virtue  like  theirs;  but  a  poet  with 
thorough  truth  of  substance  and  an  answering  truth 
of  style,  giving  us  a  poetry  sound  to  the  core.  We 
all  of  us  have  a  leaning  toward  the  pathetic,  and 
may  be  inclined  perhaps  to  prize  Burns  most  for  his 
touches  of  piercing,  sometimes  almost  intolerable, 
pathos;  for  verse  like: 

"  We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn 
From  mornin'  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 
Sin   auld   lang  syne.  ..." 

— where  he  is  as  lovely  as  he  is  sound.  But  perhaps 
it  is  by  the  perfection  of  soundness  of  his  lighter 

150 


THE    REAL    BURNS 

and  archer  masterpieces  that  he  is  poetically  most 
wholesome  for  us.  For  the  votary  misled  by  a  per- 
sonal estimate  of  Shelley,  as  so  many  of  us  have 
been,  are,  and  will  be, — of  that  beautiful  spirit  build- 
tog  his  many-colored  haze  of  words  and  images 

** Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane** — 
no  contact  can  be  wholesomer  than  the  contact  with 
Burns  at  his   archest   and   soundest.     Side  by  side 
with  the 

•'  On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  courses  are  wont  to  respire. 
But  the  earth  has  just  whispered  a  warning 

That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than  fire.** 

of  "  Prometheus  Unbound,"  how  salutary,  how  very 
salutary,  to  place  this  from  "  Tam  Glen  " : 

"  My   minnie   does    constantly   deave  me 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men; 
They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me; 

But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tam  Glen?" 

But  we  enter  on  burning  ground  as  we  approacn 
the  poetry  of  times  so  near  to  us,  poetry  like  that 
of  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Wordsworth,  of  which  the 
estimates  are  so  often  not  only  personal,  but  per- 
sonal with  passion.  For  my  purpose,  it  is  enough 
to  have  taken  the  single  case  of  Burns,  the  first 
poet  we  come  to  of  whose  work  the  estimate  formed 
is  evidently  apt  to  be  personal,  and  to  have  sug- 
gested how  we  may  proceed,  using  the  poetry  of  the 
great  classics,  as  a  sort  of  touchstone,  to  correct  this 
estimate,  as  we  had  previously  corrected  by  the  same 
means  the  historic  estimate  where  we  met  with  it. 


l^\ 


MARCUS   AURELIUS 

Marcus  Atjrelius  Aktoninus  was  a  Roman 
emperor  of  the  second  century  after  Christ.  He 
was  one  of  the  most  noted  men  of  antiquity,  and 
his  character  was  exemplified  in  his  reign,  which 
was  in  marked  contrast  to  that  of  other  rulers  of 
the  empire.  His  "  Meditations,"  from  which  the 
subjoined  passages  were  selected,  is  perhaps  the 
most  striking  expression  of  the  best  pagan 
thought. 


THE    BEAUTY    OF    THE    WORLD 

TO  him  who  hath  a  true  insight  into  the  real  na- 
ture of  the  Universe,  every  change  in  every- 
thing therein  that  is  a  part  thereof  seems  appropriate 
and  delightful.  The  bread  that  is  over-baked  so  that 
it  cracks  and  bursts  asunder  hath  not  the  form  de- 
sired by  the  baker;  yet  none  the  less  it  hath  a  beauty 
of  its  own,  and  is  most  tempting  to  the  palate.  Figs 
bursting  in  their  ripeness,  olives  near  even  unto 
decay,  have  yet  in  their  broken  ripeness  a  distinctive 
beauty.  Shocks  of  corn  bending  down  in  their  ful- 
ness, the  lion's  mane,  the  wild  boar's  mouth  all 
flecked  with  foam,  and  many  other  things  of  the 
same  kind,  though  perhaps  not  pleasing  in  and  of 
themselves,  yet  as  necessary  parts  of  the  Universe 
created  by  the  Divine  Being  they  add  to  the  beauty 
of  the  Universe,  and  inspire  a  feeling  of  pleasure. 
So  that  if  a  man  hath  appreciation  of  and  an  insight 
into  the  purpose  of  the  Universe,  there  is  scarcely 
a  portion  thereof  that  will  not  to  him  in  a  sense  seem 
adapted   to   give   delight.     In   this   sense  the   open 

152 


THE    GODS    BE    THANKED 

jaws  of  wild  beasts  will  appear  no  less  pleasing 
than  their  prototypes  in  the  realm  of  art.  Even  in 
old  men  and  women  he  will  be  able  to  perceive  a  dis- 
tinctive maturity  and  seemliness,  while  the  winsome 
bloom  of  youth  he  can  contemplate  with  eyes  free 
from  lascivious  desire.  And  in  like  manner  it  will 
be  with  very  many  things  which  to  every  one  may 
not  seem  pleasing,  but  which  will  certainly  rejoice 
the  man  who  is  a  true  student  of  Nature  and  her 
works. 

TO  THE  PURE  ALL  THINGS  ARE  PURE 

IN  the  mind  of  him  who  is  pure  and  good  will  be 
found  neither  corruption  nor  defilement  nor  any 
malignant  taint.  Unlike  the  actor  who  leaves  the 
stage  before  his  part  is  played,  the  life  of  such  a 
man  is  complete  whenever  death  may  come.  He 
is  neither  cowardly  nor  presuming;  not  enslaved  to 
life  nor  indifferent  to  its  duties;  and  in  him  is  found 
nothing  worthy  of  condemnation  nor  that  which  put- 
teth  to  shame. 

Test  by  a  trial  how  excellent  is  the  life  of  the 
good  man; — the  man  who  rejoices  at  the  portion 
given  him  in  the  universal  lot  and  abides  therein 
content;  just  in  all  his  ways  and  kindly  minded 
toward  all  men. 

This  is  moral  perfection:  to  live  each  day  as 
though  it  were  the  last;  to  be  tranquil,  sincere,  yet 
not  indifferent  to  one's  fate. 


THE    GODS    BE    THANKED 

TO  the  gods  I  am  indebted  for  having  good 
grandfathers,  good  parents,  a  good  sister, 
good  teachers,  good  associates,  good  kinsmen  and 
friends.    Further,  I  owe  it  to  the  gods  that  I  was  not 

153 


MARCUS    AURELIUS 

hurried  into  any  offence  against  any  of  them,  though 
I  had  a  disposition  which,  if  opportunity  had  offered, 
might  have  led  me  to  do  something  of  this  kind. 
But,  through  their  favor,  there  never  was  such  a 
convenience  of  circumstances  as  put  me  to  the 
trial.     .     .     . 

Further,  I  am  thankful  to  the  gods  that  I  was  sub- 
jected to  a  ruler  and  [adoptive]  father  who  was  able 
to  take  away  all  pride  from  me,  and  to  bring  me  to 
the  knowledge  that  it  was  possible  for  a  man  to  live 
in  a  palace  without  wanting  either  guards  or  em- 
broidered dresses,  or  torches  and  statues,  and  such- 
like show;  but  that  it  13  in  such  a  man's  power  to 
bring  himself  very  near  to  the  fashion  of  a  private 
person,  without  being  for  this  reason  either  mean 
in  thought,  or  more  remiss  in  action,  with  respect 
to  the  things  which  must  be  done  for  the  public 
interest  in  a  manner  that  befits  a  ruler.  .  .  . 

I  thank  the  gods  that  I  did  not  make  more  pro- 
ficiency in  rhetoric,  poetry,  and  the  other  studies  in 
which  I  should  perhaps  have  been  completely  en- 
gaged if  I  had  seen  that  I  was  making  progress  in 
them;  ^lat  I  made  haste  to  place  those  who  brought 
me  up  in  the  station  of  honor  which  they  seemed 
to  desire,  wftHOut  putting  them  off  with  the  hope  of 
my  doing  it  some  time  after. 

I  thank  the  gods  that  I  received  clear  and  fre- 
quent impressions  about  living  in  accordance  with 
Nature,  and  what  kind  of  a  life  that  is;  so  that, 
so  far  as  dependent  on  the  gods,  and  their  gifts  and 
help  and  inspiration,  nothing  hindered  me  from 
forthwith  living  according  to  Nature;  though  I  still 
fall  short  of  it  through  my  own  fault,  and  not  ob- 
serving the  admonition  of  the  gods,  and,  I  may  al- 
most say,  their  direct  instructions. 

I  thank  the  gods  that  though  it  was  my  mother's 
fate  to  die  young,  she  spent  the  last  years  of  her 
life  with  me;  that  I  have  such  a  wife,  so  obedient, 

154 


THE    GODS    BE    THANKED 

and  so  affectionate,  and  so  simple;  that  I  had  abun- 
dance of  good  masters  for  my  children;  and  that 
when  I  had  an  inclination  to  philosophy,  I  did  not 
waste  my  time  on  scribblers,  or  in  the  resolution  of 
syllogisms,  or  occupy  myself  about  the  investiga- 
tions of  appearances  in  the  heavens:  for  all  these 
things  require  the  help  of  the  gods  and  fortune. 


i55 


JANE   AUSTEN 

Jane  Austen,  novelist,  was  born  at  Steventon, 
England,  in  1775;  died  in  1817.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  a  clergyman,  and  early  availed  herself 
of  all  opportunities  to  study  ancient  and  modern 
writers.  "Pride  and  Prejudice,"  her  best  work, 
stands  to-day  as  one  of  the  English  classics,  and 
its  reading  is  considered  essential  by  those  who  wish 
to  be  acquainted  with  the  best  literature  of  the  past 
one  hundred  years. 


MR.    COLLINS    PROPOSES    AND 
ELIZABETH    DISPOSES 

(From  "  Pride  and  Prejudice  " 

MR.  COLLINS  was  not  left  long  to  the  silent  con- 
templation of  his  successful  love;  for  Mrs. 
Bennet,  having  dawdled  about  in  the  vestibule  to 
watch  for  the  end  of  the  conference,  no  sooner  saw 
Elizabeth  open  the  door  and  with  quick  step  pass 
her  toward  the  staircase,  than  she  entered  the  break- 
fast room,  and  congratulated  both  him  and  herself 
in  warm  terms  on  the  happy  prospect  of  their  nearer 
connection.  Mr.  Collins  received  and  returned 
these  felicitations  with  equal  pleasure,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  relate  the  particulars  of  their  interview, 
with  the  result  of  which  he  trusted  he  had  every 
reason  to  be  satisfied,  since  the  refusal  which  his 
cousin  had  steadfastly  given  him  would  naturally 
flow  from  her  bashful  modesty  and  the  genuine 
delicacy  of  her  character. 

This  information,  however,  startled  Mrs.  Bennet; 
she  would  have  been  glad  to  be  equally  satisfied  that 
156 


MR.    COLLINS   PROPOSE^   AND   ELIZABETH   DISPOSES 

her  daughter  had  meant  to  encourage  him  by  pro- 
testing against  his  proposals,  but  she  dared  not  be- 
lieve it,  and  could  not  help  saying  so. 

"  But  depend  upon  it,  Mr.  Collins,"  she  added, 
"  that  Lizzy  shall  be  brought  to  reason.  I  will  speak 
to  her  about  it  myself  directly.  She  is  a  very  head- 
strong, foolish  girl,  and  does  not  know  her  own  in- 
terest; but  I  will  make  her  know  it ! " 

"  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you,  madam,"  cried 
Mr,  Collins;  "but  if  she  is  really  headstrong  and 
foolish,  I  know  not  whether  she  would  altogether  be 
a  very  desirable  wife  to  a  man  in  my  situation,  who 
naturally  looks  for  happiness  in  the  marriage  state. 
If,  therefore,  she  actually  persists  in  rejecting  my 
suit,  perhaps  it  were  better  not  to  force  her  into 
accepting  me,  because,  if  liable  to  such  defects  of 
temper,  she  could  not  add  much  to  my  felicity." 

"Sir,  you  quite  misunderstand  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ben- 
net,  alarmed.  *'  Lizzy  is  only  headstrong  in  such 
matters  as  these.  In  everything  else  she  is  as  good- 
natured  a  girl  as  ever  lived.  I  will  go  directly  to 
Mr.  Bennet,  and  we  shall  very  soon  settle  it  with 
her,  I  am  sure." 

She  would  not  give  him  time  to  reply,  but  hurry- 
ing instantly  to  her  husband,  called  out,  as  she  en- 
tered the  librarj': — 

"Oh,  Mr.  Bennet,  you  are  wanted  immediately;  we 
are  all  in  an  uproar!  You  must  come  and  make 
Lizzy  marry  Mr,  Collins,  for  she  vows  she  will  not 
have  him;  and  if  3'ou  do  not  make  haste  he  will 
change  his  mind  and  not  have  her!" 

Mr.  Bennet  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book  as  she 
entered,  and  fixed  them  on  her  face  with  a  calm 
unconcern,  which  was  not  in  the  least  altered  by  her 
communication, 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  understanding  you," 
said  he,  when  she  had  finished  her  speech,  "  Of 
what    are   you    talking?" 

157 


JANE    AUSTEN 

"Of  Mr.  Collins  and  Lizzy.  Lizzy  declares  she 
will  not  have  Mr.  Collins,  and  Mr.  Collins  begins  to 
say  that  he  will  not  have  Lizzy. 

"And  what  am  I  to  do  on  the  occasion?  It 
seems  a  hopeless  business." 

"  Speak  to  Lizzy  about  it  yourself.  Tell  her  that 
you  insist  upon  her  marrying  him." 

"  Let  her  be  called  down.  She  shall  hear  my 
opinion." 

Mrs.  Bennet  rang  the  bell,  and  Miss  Elizabeth  was 
summoned  to  the  library. 

"  Come  here,  child,"  cried  her  father,  as  she  ap- 
peared. "  I  have  sent  for  you  on  an  affair  of  im- 
portance. I  understand  that  Mr.  Collins  has  made 
you  an  offer  of  marriage.  Is  it  true?"  Elizabeth  re- 
plied that  it  was.  "  Very  well — and  this  offer  of 
marriage  you  have  refused?" 

"I  have,  sir?" 

"  Very  well.  We  now  come  to  the  point.  Your 
mother  insists  upon  your  accepting  it.  Is  it  not 
so,  Mrs.  Bennet?" 

"  Yes,  or  I  will  never  see  her  again." 

"  An  unhappy  alternative  is  before  you,  Elizabeth. 
From  this  day  you  must  be  a  stranger  to  one  of  your 
parents.  Your  mother  will  never  see  you  again  if 
you  do  not  marry  Mr.  Collins,  and  I  will  never  see 
you  again  if  you  do!" 

Elizabeth  could  not  but  smile  at  such  a  conclusion 
of  such  a  beginning;  but  Mrs.  Bennet,  who  had  per- 
suaded herself  that  her  husband  regarded  the  affair 
as  she  wished,  was  excessively  disappointed. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr,  Bennet,  by  talking  in 
this  way?  You  promised  me  to  insist  upon  her 
marrying  him." 

"  My  dear,"  replied  her  husband,  "  I  have  two 
small  favors  to  request.  First,  that  you  will  allow 
me  the  free  use  of  my  understanding  on  the  present 
occasion;   and,  secondly,   of  my  room.     I   shall  be 

158 


MR.    COLLINS   PROPOSES  AND   ELIZABETH   DISPOSES 

glad  to  have  the  library  to  myself  as  soon  as  may 
be." 

Not  yet,  however,  in  spite  of  her  disappointment 
in  her  husband,  did  Mrs.  Bennet  give  up  the  point. 
She  talked  to  Elizabeth  again  and  again;  coaxed 
and  threatened  her  by  turns,  hhe  endeavored  to  se- 
cure Jane  in  her  interest,  but  Jane,  with  all  possible 
mildness,  declined  interfering;  and  Elizabeth,  some- 
times with  real  earnestness,  and  sometimes  with 
playful  gayety,  replied  to  her  attacks.  Though  her 
manner  varied,  however,  her  determination  never  did. 

Mr.  Collins,  meanwhile,  was  meditating  in  solitude 
on  what  had  passed.  He  thought  too  well  of  himself 
to  comprehend  on  what  motive  his  cousin  could  re- 
fuse him;  and  though  hiii  p^iUe  was  hurt,  he  suffered 
in  no  other  way.  His  reguid  for  her  was  quite  imag- 
inary, and  the  possibility  of  her  deserving  her 
mother's  reproach  prevented  his  feeling  any  regret. 

While  the  family  were  in  this  confusion  Charlotte 
Lucas  came  to  spend  the  day  with  them.  She  was 
met  in  the  vestibule  by  Lydia,  who,  flying  to  her, 
cried,  in  a  half  M^hisper,  *'  I  am  glad  you  are  come, 
for  there  is  such  fun  here!  What  do  you  think 
has  happened  this  morning?  Mr.  Collins  has  made 
an  offer  to  Lizzy,  and  she  vill  not  have  him." 

Charlotte  had  hardly  time  to  answer  before  they 
were  joined  by  Kitty,  wno  came  to  tell  the  same 
news:  and  no  sooner  had  they  entered  the  breakfast 
room  where  Mrs.  Bennet  was  alone  than  she  like- 
wise began  on  the  subject,  calling  on  Miss  Lucas 
for  her  compassion,  and  entreating  her  to  persuade 
her  friend  Lizzy  to  comply  with  the  wishes  of  all 
her  family.  "Pray  do,  n»i'  dear  Miss  Lucas,"  she 
added,  in  a  melancholy  tone,  *'  for  nobody  is  on  my 
side,  nobody  takes  part  with  me;  I  am  cruelly  used; 
nobody  feels  for  my  poor  nerves." 

Charlotte's  reply  was  spared  by  the  entrance  of 
Jane  and  Elizabeth. 

159 


JANE    AUSTEN 

"Ay,  there  she  comes,"  continued  Mrs.  Bennet, 
"looking  as  unconcerned  as  may  be,  and  caring  no 
more  for  us  than  if  we  were  at  York,  provided  she 
can  have  her  own  way.  But  I  tell  you  what.  Miss 
Lizzy,  if  you  take  it  into  your  head  to  go  on  re- 
fusing every  offer  of  marriage  in  this  way,  you  will 
never  get  a  husband  at  all;  and  I  am  sure  I  do  not 
know  who  is  to  maintain  you  when  your  father  is 
dead.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  you — and  so  I 
warn  you.  I  have  done  with  you  from  this  very 
day.  I  told  you  in  the  library,  you  know,  that  I 
should  never  speak  to  you  again,  and  you  will  find 
me  as  good  as  my  word.  I  have  no  pleasure  in  talk- 
ing to  undutiful  children.  Not  that  I  have  much 
pleasure,  indeed,  in  talking  to  anybody.  People 
who  suifer  as  I  do  from  nervous  complaints  can 
have  no  great  inclination  for  talking.  Nobody  can 
tell  what  I  suffer!  But  it  is  always  so:  those  who 
do  not  complain  are  never  pitied." 

Her  daughters  listened  in  silence  to  this  effusion, 
sensible  that  any  attempt  to  reason  with  or  soothe 
her  would  only  increase  the  irritation.  She  talked 
on,  therefore,  without  interruption  from  any  of  them, 
till  they  were  joined  by  Mr.  Collins,  who  entered 
with  an  air  more  stately  than  usual,  and  on  perceiv- 
ing whom  she  said  to  the  girls: — 

"  Now  I  do  insist  upon  it  that  you,  all  of  you,  hold 
your  tongues  and  let  Mr.  Collins  and  me  have  a 
little  conversation  together." 

Elizabeth  passed  quietly  out  of  the  room,  Jane 
and  Kitty  followed,  but  Lydia  stood  her  ground, 
determined  to  hear  all  she  could;  and  Charlotte  de- 
tained first  by  the  civility  of  Mr.  Collins,  whose  in- 
quiries after  herself  and  all  her  family  were  very 
minute,  and  then  by  a  little  curiosity,  satisfied  her- 
self with  walking  to  the  window  and  pretending  not 
to  hear.  In  a  doleful  voice  Mrs.  Bennet  thus  be- 
gan the  projected  conversation:   "Oh,  Mr.  Collins!" 

160 


MR.    COLLINS   PROPOSES   AND    ELIZABETH    DISPOSES 

"  My  dear  madam,"  replied  he,  "  let  us  be  for- 
ever silent  on  this  point.  Far  be  it  from  me,"  he 
presently  continued,  in  a  voice  that  marked  his  dis- 
pleasure, "  to  resent  the  behavior  of  your  daughter. 
Resignation  to  inevitable  evils  is  the  duty  of  us 
all — the  peculiar  duty  of  a  young  man  who  has  been 
so  fortunate  as  I  have  been,  in  early  preferment; 
and,  I  trust  I  am  resigned.  Perhaps  not  the  less 
so  from  feeling  a  doubt  of  my  positive  happiness 
had  my  fair  cousin  honored  me  with  her  hand;  for 
I  have  often  observed  that  resignation  is  never  so 
perfect  as  when  the  blessing  denied  begins  to  lose 
somewhat  of  its  value  in  our  estimation.  You  will 
not,  I  hope,  consider  me  as  showing  any  disrespect 
to  your  family,  my  dear  madam,  by  thus  with- 
drawing my  pretensions  to  your  daughter's  favor, 
without  having  paid  yourself  and  Mr.  Bennet  the 
compliment  of  requesting  you  to  interpose  your 
authority  in  my  behalf.  My  conduct  may,  I  fear, 
be  objectionable  in  having  accepted  my  dismissal 
from  your  daughter's  lips  instead  of  your  own;  but 
we  are  all  lialile  to  error.  I  have  certainly  meant 
well  through  the  whole  affair.  My  object  has  been 
to  secure  an  amiable  companion  for  myself,  with 
due  consideration  for  the  advantage  of  all  your 
family;  and  if  my  manner  has  been  at  all  repre- 
hensible, I  here  beg  leave  to  apologize." 


ELIZABETH    DEFIES    LADY 
CATHERINE 

(From  "  Pride  and  Prejudice  ") 

ONE  morning,  about  a  week  after  Bingley's  en- 
gagement with  Jane  had  been  formed,  as  he 
and  the  females  of  the  f  imily  were  sitting  together  in 
the  dining  room,  their  attention  was  suddenly  drawn 
to  the  window  by  the  sound  of  a  carriages  *"id  they 
161 


JANE    AUSTEN 

perceived  a  chaise  and  four  driving  up  the  la%vn.  It 
was  too  early  in  the  morning  for  visitors,  and  besides, 
the  equipage  did  not  answer  to  that  of  any  of  their 
neighbors.  The  horses  were  post;  and  neither  the 
carriage  nor  the  livery  of  the  servant  who  preceded 
it  was  familiar  to  them.  As  it  was  certain,  however, 
that  somebody  was  coming,  Bingley  instantly  pre- 
vailed on  Miss  Emmet  to  avoid  the  confinement  of 
such  an  intrusion  and  walk  away  with  him  into  the 
shrubbery.  They  both  set  off,  and  the  conjecture? 
of  the  remaining  three  continued,  though  with  little 
satisfaction,  till  the  door  was  thrown  open  and  their 
visitor  entered.     It  was  Lady  Catherine  De  Bourgh. 

They  were  of  course  all  intending  to  be  surprised, 
but  their  astonishmenc  was  beyond  their  expectation; 
and  on  the  part  of  JNIrs.  Bennet  and  Kitty,  though 
she  was  perfectly  unknown  to  them,  even  inferior 
to  what  Elizabeth  felt. 

She  entered  the  room  with  an  air  more  than 
usually  ungracious,  made  no  other  reply  to  Eliza- 
beth's salutation  than  a  slight  inclination  of  the 
head,  and  sat  down  without  saying  a  word.  Eliza- 
beth had  mentioned  her  name  to  her  mother  on  her 
ladyship's  entrance,  though  no  request  of  introduc- 
tion had  been  made. 

Mrs.  Bennet,  all  amazement,  though  flattered  by 
having  a  guest  of  such  high  importance,  received 
her  with  the  utmost  politeness.  After  sitting  for  a 
moment  in  silence  she  said,  very  stiffly,  to  Eliza- 
beth:— 

"  I  hope  you  are  well,  Miss  Bennet.  That  lady,  I 
suppose,  is  your  mother?" 

Elizabeth  replied  very  concisely  that  she  was. 

"  And  that,  I  suppose,  is  one  of  your  sisters?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet,  delighted  to 
speak  to  a  Lady  Catherine ;  "  she  is  my  youngest  girl 
but  one.  My  youngest  of  all  is  lately  married,  and 
my  eldest  is  somewhere  about  the  ground,  walking 

ie9 


ELIZABETH    DEFIES    LADY    CATHERINE 

with  a  youne:  man,  who,  I  believe,  will  soon  become 
a  part  of  the  family." 

"  You  have  a  very  small  park  here,"  returned 
Lady  Catherine,  after  a  short  silence. 

"  It  is  nothing  in  comparison  with  Rosings,  my 
lady,  I  dare  say;  but  I  assure  you  it  is  much  larger 
than  Sir  William  Lucas'." 

"  This  must  be  a  most  inconvenient  sitting  room 
for  the  evening  in  summer;  the  windows  are  full 
west." 

Mrs.  Bennet  assured  her  that  they  never  sat 
there  after  dinner;  and  then  added: — 

"  May  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  your  ladyship 
whether  you  left  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Collins  well?  " 

"  Yes,  very  well.  I  saw  them  the  night  before 
last." 

Elizabeth  now  expected  that  she  would  produce  a 
letter  for  her  from  Charlotte,  as  it  seemed  the  only 
probable  motive  for  her  calling.  But  no  letter  ap- 
peared, and  she  was  completely  puzzled. 

Mrs.  Bennet  with  great  civility  begged  her  ladj'- 
ship  to  take  some  refreshment;  but  Lady  Catherine 
very  resolutely,  and  not  very  politely,  declined  eat- 
ing anything;  and  then,  rising  up,  said  to  Eliza- 
beth :— 

"  Miss  Bennet,  there  seemed  to  be  a  prettyish  kino 
of  a  little  wilderness  on  one  side  of  your  lawn.  I 
should  l)e  glad  to  take  a  turn  in  it,  if  you  will  favor 
me  with  your  company." 

"  oo,  my  dear,"  cried  her  mother,  "  and  show  her 
ladyship  about  the  different  walks.  I  think  she  will 
be  pleased  with  the  hermitage." 

Elizabeth  obeyed;  and,  running  into  her  own 
room  for  her  parasol,  attended  her  noble  guest 
downstairs.  As  they  passed  through  the  hall,  Lady 
Catherine  opened  the  doors  into  the  dining  parlor 
and  drawing-rcom,  and  pronouncing  them,  after  a 
short  survey,  to  be  decent-looking  rooms,  walked  on. 
163 


JANE    AUSTEN 

Her  carriage  remained  at  the  door,  and  Elizabeth 
saw  that  her  waiting  woman  was  in  it.  They  pro- 
ceeded in  silence  along  the  gravel  walk  that  led  to 
the  copse;  Elizabeth  was  determined  to  make  no 
effort  for  conversation  with  a  woman  who  was  now 
more  than  usually  insolent  and  disagreeable. 

"How  could  I  ever  think  her  like  her  nephew?" 
said  she,  as  she  looked  in  her  face. 

As  soon  as  they  entered  the  copse.  Lady  Catherine 
began  in  the  following  manner: — 

"You  can  be  at  no  loss.  Miss  Bennet,  to  under- 
stand the  reason  of  my  lourney  hither.  Your  own 
heart,  your  own  conscience,  must  tell  you  why  I 
come." 

Elizabeth  looked  with  unaffected  astonishment. 

"Indeed  you  are  mistaken,  madam j'  i  have  not 
been  at  all  able  to  account  lor  tne  honor  oi  seeing 
^ou  here." 

"Miss  Bennet,*'  replied  her  ladyship,  in  «^n  ar'TV 
tone,  "you  ought  to  know  that  I  am  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  But  however  insincere  you  may  choose 
to  be,  you  shall  not  find  me  so.  My  character  has 
ever  been  celebrated  for  its  sincerity  and  frank- 
ness; and  in  a  cause  of  such  moment  as  this  I  shall 
certainly  not  depart  from  it.  A  report  of  a  most 
alarming  nature  reached  me  two  days  ago.  I  was 
told  that  not  only  your  sister  was  on  the  point  of 
being  most  advantageously  married,  but  that  you, 
that  Miss  Elizabeth  Bennet,  would,  in  all  likeli- 
hood, be  soon  united  afterward  to  my  nephew,  my 
own  nephew,  Mr.  Darcy.  Though  I  know  it  must 
be  a  scandalous  falsehood,  though  I  would  not 
injure  him  so  much  as  to  suppose  the  truth  of  it 
possible,  I  instantly  resolved  on  setting  off  for  this 
place  that  I  might  make  my  sentiments  known  to 
you." 

"  If  you  believed  it  impossible  to  be  true,'*  said 
[Elizabeth,  coloring  with  astonishment   and   disdain, 

164 


ELIZABETH    DEFIES    L4.DY     CATHERINE 

"  I  wonder  you  took  the  trouble  of  coming  s«  far, 
"What  could  your  ladyship  propose  by  it?" 

"  At  once  to  insist  upon  having  such  a  report  uni- 
versally   contradicted." 

"  Your  coming  to  Longhourn  to  see  me  and  my 
family,"  said  Elizabeth,  coolly,  "  will  be  rather  a 
confirmation  of  it, — if,  indeed,  such  a  report  is  in 
existence." 

"If!  Do  you,  then,  pretend  to  be  ignorant  of  it? 
Has  it  not  been  industriously  circulated  by  your- 
selves? Do  you  not  know  that  such  a  report  *: 
spread  about?" 

"  I  never  heard  that  it  was." 

"  And  you  can  likewise  declare  that  there  is  no 
foundation  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  pretend  to  possess  equal  frankness 
with  your  ladyship.  You  may  ask  queotions 
which  I  shall  not  choose  to  answer." 

"This  is  not  to  be  borne!  Miss  Bennet,  I  in- 
sist on  being  satisfied.  Has  he,  my  nepnew,  made 
you  an  offer  of  marriage?" 

"Your  ladyship  has  declared  it  to  be  impossible.'* 

"  It  ought  to  be  sc;  it  must  be  so,  ^^  hile  he  re- 
tains the  use  of  his  reason.  But  your  arts  and 
allurements  may,  in  a  monrent  of  infatuation,  have 
made  him  forget  what  hf  owes  to  himself  and  to 
all  his  family.    You  mdy  have  drawn  him  in.'* 

"  If  I  have,  I  shall  be  the  last  person  to  confess  it'* 

"Miss  Bennet,  do  you  know  who  I  am?  I  have 
not  been  sccustomed  to  such  language  as  this.  I 
am  almost  the  nearest  relation  he  has  in  the  world^ 
and  am.  entitled  to  know  all  his  dearest  concerns.'* 

"  But  you  are  not  entitled  to  know  mine;  nor  will 
such  behavior  as  this  ever  induce  me  to  be  explicit." 

"Let  me  be  rightly  understood.  This  match,  to 
which  you  have  the  presumption  to  aspire,  can  never 
take  place — no,  never.  Mr.  Darcy  is  engaged  to  n:^ 
daughter.    Now,  what  have  you  to  sajr?'* 

lOi 


JANE    AUSTEN 

"Only  this — that  if  he  is  so,  you  can  have  no 
reason  to  suppose  he  will  make  an  offer  to  me." 

Lady  Catherine  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  re- 
plied:— 

"  The  engagement  between  them  is  of  a  peculiar 
kind.  From  their  infancy  they  have  been  intended 
for  each  other.  It  was  the  favorite  wish  of  his 
mother,  as  well  as  of  hers.  While  in  their  cradles 
we  planned  the  union  and  now,  at  the  moment  when 
the  wishes  of  both  sisters  would  be  accomplished  in 
their  marriage,  to  be  prevented  by  a  young  woman 
of  inferior  birth,  of  no  importance  in  the  world, 
and  wholly  unailied  to  the  family !  Do  you  pay 
no  regard  to  the  wishes  of  his  friends?  to  his  tacit 
engagement  with  Miss  De  Bourgh?  Are  you  lost 
to  every  feeling  of  propriety  and  delicacy?  Have 
you  not  heard  me  say  that  from  his  earliest  hours, 
he  was  destined  for  his  cousin?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  had  heard  it  before.  But  what  is 
that  to  me?  If  there  is  no  other  objection  to  my 
marrying  your  nephew,  I  shall  certainly  not  be  kept 
from  it  by  knowing  that  his  mother  and  aunt  wished 
him  to  marry  Miss  De  Bourgh.  You  both  did  as 
much  as  you  could  in  planning  the  marriage;  its 
completion  depended  on  others.  If  Mr.  Darcy  is 
neither  by  honor  nor  inclination  confined  to  his 
cousin,  why  is  not  he  to  make  another  choice?  and  if 
I  am  that  choice,  why  may  not  I  accept  him?" 

"  Because  honor,  decorum,  prudence,  nay  interest, 
forbid  it.  Yes,  Miss  Bennet,  interest,  for  do  not 
expect  to  be  noticed  by  his  family  or  friends,  if  you 
wilfully  act  against  the  inclinations  of  all.  You  will 
be  censured,  slighted,  and  despised  by  every  one 
connected  with  him.  Your  alliance  will  be  a  dis- 
grace; your  name  will  never  even  be  mentioned  by 
any  of  us." 

"  These  are  heavy  misfortunes !  "  replied  Elizabeth. 
*'  But  the  wife  of  Mr.  Darcy  must  have  such  ex- 

166 


ELIZABETH    DEFIES    LADY    CATHERINE 

traordinary  sources  of  happiness  necessarily  attached 
to  her  situation  that  she  could,  upon  the  whole,  have 
no  cause  to  repine." 

"Obstinate,  headstrong?  girl!  I  am  ashamed  of 
you !  Is  this  your  gratitude  for  my  attentions  to 
you  last  spring?  Is  nothing  due  to  me  on  that 
score?  Let  us  sit  down.  You  are  to  understand, 
Miss  Rennet,  that  I  came  here  with  the  determined 
resolution  of  carrying  out  my  purpose;  nor  will  I 
be  dissuaded  from  it.  I  have  not  been  used  to  sub- 
mit to  any  person's  whims.  I  have  not  been  in  the 
habit  of  brooking  disappointment." 

"  That  will  make  your  ladyship's  situation  at  pres- 
ent more  pitiable  but  it  will  have  no  etfect  on  me." 

"  I  will  not  be  interrujjted.  Hear  me  in  silence. 
My  daughter  and  my  nephew  are  formed  for  each 
other.  They  are  descended,  on  the  maternal  side, 
from  the  same  noble  line;  and,  on  the  father's  from 
respectable,  honorable,  and  ancient,  though  untitled, 
families.  Their  fortune  on  both  sides  is  splendid. 
They  are  destined  for  each  other  by  the  voice  of 
every  member  of  their  respective  houses;  and  what 
is  to  divide  them? — the  upstart  pretensions  of  a 
young  woman  without  family,  connections,  or  for- 
tune! Is  this  to  be  endured?  But  it  must  not, 
shall  not  be!  If  you  were  sensible  of  your  own 
good,  you  would  not  wish  to  quit  the  sphere  in  which 
you  have  been  brought  up." 

■'  In  marrying  your  nephew,  I  should  not  consider 
myself  as  quitting  that  sphere.  He  is  a  gentleman; 
I  am  a  gentleman's  daughter;  so  far  we  are  equal." 

"  True.  You  are  a  gentleman's  daughter.  But 
what  was  your  mother?  Who  are  your  uncles  and 
aunts?  Do  not  imagine  me  ignorant  of  their  con- 
dition." 

"  Whatever  my  connections  may  be,"  said  Eliza- 
beth, "  if  your  nephew  does  not  object  to  them, 
they  can  be  nothing  to  you." 

167 


JANE    AUSTEN 

"  Tell  me,  once  for  all,  are  you  engaged  to  him?*' 

Though  Elizabeth  would  not,  for  the  mere  purpose* 
of  obliging  Lady  Catherine,  have  answered  this  ques- 
tion, she  could  not  but  say,  after  a  moment's  de^ 
liberation : — 

"  I  am  not." 

Lady  Catherine  seemed  pleased. 

"  And  will  you  promise  me  never  to  enter  into 
such  an  engagement?" 

"  I  will  make  no  promise  of  the  kind." 

"  Miss  Bennet,  I  am  shocked  and  astonished.  I 
expected  to  find  a  more  reasonable  young  woman. 
But  do  not  deceive  yourself  into  a  belief  that  I  will 
ever  recede.  I  shall  not  go  away  till  you  have  given 
me  the  assurance  I  require." 

"  And  I  certainly  never  shall  give  it.  I  am  not  to 
be  intimidated  into  anything  so  wholly  unreasonable. 
Your  ladyship  wants  Mr.  Darcy  to  marry  your 
daughter;  but  would  my  giving  you  the  wished-for 
promise  make  their  marriage  at  all  more  probable? 
Supposing  him  to  be  attached  to  me,  would  my  re- 
fusing to  accept  his  hand  make  him  wish  to  bestow 
it  on  his  cousin?  Allow  me  to  say.  Lady  Catherine, 
that  the  arguments  with  which  you  have  supported 
this  extraordinary  application  have  been  as  frivo- 
lous as  the  application  was  ill-judged.  You  have 
"Widely  mistaken  my  character,  if  you  think  I  can 
)e  worked  on  by  such  persuasions  as  these.  How  far 
your  nephew  might  approve  of  your  interference 
in  his  affairs  I  cannot  tell,  but  you  have  certainly 
no  right  to  concern  yourself  in  mine.  I  must  beg, 
therefore,  to  be  importuned  no  further  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

"  Not  so  hasty,  if  you  please;  I  have  by  no  means 
done.  To  all  the  objections  I  have  already  urged  I 
have  still  another  to  add.  I  am  no  stranger  to  the 
particulars  of  your  younger  sister's infamouselope- 
ment:  I  know  it  all— that  the  young  man's  marry- 
ing her  was  a  patched-up  business  at  the  expense 

168 


ELIZABETH    DEFIES    LADY    CATHERINE 

of  your  father  and  uncle.  And  is  such  a  girl  to  be 
my  nephew's  sister?  Is  her  husband,  who  is  the  son 
of  his  late  father's  steward,  to  be  his  brother? 
Heaven  and  earth!  of  what  are  you  thinking?  Are 
the  shades  of  Pemberley  to  be  thus  polluted?" 

"■  You  can  now  have  nothing  further  to  say,"  she 
resentfully  answered.  "  You  have  insulted  me  in 
every  possible  method.  I  must  beg  to  return  to  the 
house." 

And  she  rose  as  she  spoke.  Lady  Catherine  rose 
also,  and  they  turned  back.  Her  ladyship  was  highly 
incensed. 

"  You  have  no  regard,  then,  for  the  honor  and 
credit  of  my  nephew?  Unfeeling,  selfish  girl  !  Do 
you  not  consider  that  a  connection  with  you  must 
disgrace  him  in  the  eyes  of  everybody?" 

"  Lady  Catherine,  I  have  nothing  further  to  say. 
You  know  my  sentiments." 

"You  are,  then,  resolved  to  have  him?" 

"  I  have  said  no  such  thing,  I  am  only  resolved 
:o  act  in  that  manner  which  will,  in  my  own  opin- 
ion, constitute  my  happiness,  without  reference  to 
you,  or  to  any  person  so  wholly  unconnected  with 
me." 

"  It  is  well.  You  refuse,  then,  to  oblige  me;  you 
refuse  to  obey  the  claims  of  duty,  honor  and  grati- 
tude. You  are  determined  to  ruin  him  in  the  opinion 
of  all  his  friends,  and  make  him  the  contempt  of  the 
world." 

**  Neither  duty,  nor  honor,  nor  gratitude,"  replied 
Elizabeth,  "  has  any  possible  claim  on  me,  in  the 
present  instance.  No  principle  of  either  would  be 
violated  by  my  marriage  with  Mr.  Darcy.  And  with 
regard  to  the  resentment  of  his  family,  or  the  indig- 
nation of  the  world,  if  the  former  were  excited  by 
his  marrying  me,  it  would  not  give  me  one  moment's 
concern;  and  the  world  in  general  would  have  too 
much  sense  to  join  in  the  scorn." 

169 


JANE    AUSTEN 

"  And  this  is  your  real  opinion !  This  is  your  final 
resolve !  Very  well !  I  shall  now  know  how  to  act. 
Do  not  imagine,  Miss  Bennet,  that  your  ambition 
will  ever  be  gratified.  I  came  to  try  you.  I  hoped 
to  find  you  reasonable,  but  depend  upon  it,  I  will 
carry  my  point." 

In  this  manner  Lady  Catherine  talked  on  till  they 
were  at  the  door  of  the  carriage,  when,  turning 
hastily  round,  she  added: 

"  I  take  no  leave  of  you.  Miss  Bennet.  I  send  no 
compliments  to  your  mother;  you  deserve  no  such  at- 
tention.    I  am  most  seriously  displeased." 

Elizabeth  made  no  answer;  and  without  attempting 
to  persuade  her  ladyship  to  return  into  the  house, 
walked  quietly  into  it  herself.  She  heard  the  car- 
riage drive  away  as  she  proceeded  upstairs.  Her 
mother  impatiently  met  her  at  the  door  of  her  dress- 
ing-room, to  ask  why  Lady  Catherine  would  not 
*vCome  in  again  and  rest  herself. 

"She  did  not  choose  it,"  said  her  daughter;  "she 
would  go." 

"  She  is  a  very  fine-looking  woman,  and  her' calling 
here  was  prodigiously  civil ;  for  she  only  came,  I  sup- 
pose, to  tell  us  the  Collinses  were  well.  She  is  on 
her  road  somewhere,  I  dare  say;  and  so,  passing 
through  Meryton,  thought  she  might  as  well  call  on 
you.  I  suppose  she  had  nothing  particular  to  say  to 
you,  Lizzy  ?  " 

Elizabeth  was  forced  to  give  in  to  a  little  false- 
hood here;  for  to  acknowledge  the  substance  of  their 
conversation  was  impossible. 

LYDIA   BENNET'S   WEDDING 

(From  "  Pride  and  Prejudice  ") 

THEIR   sister's   wedding-day   arrived,    and   Jane 
and  Elizabeth  felt  for  her  probably  more  than 
she  felt  for  herself.    The  carriage  was  sent  to  meet 
170 


LYDIA    BENNET  S    WEDDING 

them  at  ,  and  they  were  to  return  in  it  by  din-- 

ner-time.  Their  arrival  was  dreaded  by  the  elder 
Miss  Bennets,  and  Jane  more  especially,  who  gave 
Lydia  the  feelings  which  would  have  attended  her- 
self had  she  been  the  culprit,  and  was  wretched  in 
the  thought  of  what  her  sister  must  endure. 

They  came.  The  family  were  assembled  in  the 
breakfast-room  to  receive  them.  Smiles  decked  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Bennet  as  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the 
door;  her  husband  looked  impenetrably  grave;  her 
daughters   alarmed,   anxious,  uneasy. 

Lydia's  voice  was  heard  in  the  vestibule;  the  dooi- 
was  thrown  open,  and  she  ran  into  the  room.  Her 
mother  stepped  forward,  embraced  her,  and  wel- 
comed her  with  rapture;  gave  her  hand,  with  an 
affectionate  smile,  to  Wickham,  who  followed  his 
lady;  and  wished  them  both  joy  with  an  alacrity 
which  showed  no  doubt  of  their  happiness. 

Their  reception  from  Mr.  Bennet,  to  whom  they 
then  turned,  was  not  quite  so  cordial.  His  counte- 
nance rather  gained  in  austerity,  and  he  scarcely 
opened  his  lips.  The  easy  assurance  of  the  young 
couple,  indeed,  was  enough  to  provoke  him.  Eliza- 
beth was  disgusted,  and  even  Miss  Bennet  was 
shocked.  Lydia  was  Lydia  still — untamed,  un- 
abashed, wild,  noisy,  and  fearless.  She  turned  from 
sister  to  sister,  demanding  their  congratulations;  and, 
when  at  lenp-th  they  all  sat  down,  looked  eagerly 
round  the  room,  took  notice  of  some  little  alteration 
in  it,  and  observed,  with  a  laugh,  that  it  was  a  great 
while  since  she  had  been  there. 

Wickham  was  not  at  all  more  distressed  than  her- 
self; but  his  manners  were  always  so  pleasing,  that 
had  his  character  and  his  marriage  been  exactly  what 
they  ought,  his  smiles  and  easy  address,  while  he 
claimed  their  relationship,  would  have  delighted  them 
all.  Elizabeth  had  not  before  believed  him  quite 
equal  to  such  assurance;  but  she  sat  down,  resolv- 

171 


JANE    AUSTEN 

ing  within  herself  to  draw  no  limits  in  future  to 
the  impudence  of  an  impudent  man.  She  blushed, 
and  Jane  blushed;  but  the  cheeks  of  the  two  who 
caused  their  confusion  suffered  no  variation  of  color. 

There  was  no  want  of  discourse.  The  bride  and 
her  mother  could  neither  of  them  talk  fast  enough; 
and  Wickham,  who  happened  to  sit  near  Elizabeth, 
began  inquiring  after  his  acquaintance  in  that  neigh- 
borhood with  a  good-humored  ease  which  she  felt 
very  unable  to  equal  in  her  replies.  They  seemed 
each  of  them  to  have  the  happiest  memories  in  the 
world.  Nothing  of  the  past  was  recollected  with 
pain;  and  Lydia  led  voluntarily  to  subjects  which 
her  sisters  would  not  have  alluded  to  for  the  world. 

"  Only  think  of  its  being  three  months,"  she  cried, 
"  since  I  went  away !  it  seems  but  a  fortnight,  I 
declare !  and  yet  there  have  been  things  enough 
happened  in  the  time.  Good  gracious !  when  I  went 
away  I  am  sure  I  had  no  more  idea  of  being  married 
till  I  came  back  again !  though  I  thought  it  would  be 
very  good  fun  if  I  was." 

Her  father  lifted  up  his  eyes;  Jane  was  distressed; 
Elizabeth  looked  expressively  at  Lydia;  but  she, 
who  never  saw  or  heard  anything  of  which  she  chose 
to  be  insensible,  gayly  continued :  "  Oh,  mamma,  do 
the  people  hereabouts  know  I  am  married  to-day? 
I  was  afraid  they  might  not;  and  we  overtook  Wil- 
liam Goulding  in  his  curricle,  so  I  was  determined 
he  should  know  it;  and  so  I  let  down  the  side-glass 
next  to  him,  and  took  off  my  glove  and  let  my  hand 
just  rest  upon  the  window- frame,  so  that  he  might 
see  the  ring,  and  then  I  bowed  and  smiled  like  any- 
thing." 

Elizabeth  could  bear  it  no  longer.  She  got  up  and 
ran  out  of  the  room;  and  returned  no  more  till  she 
heard  them  passing  through  the  hall  to  the  dining 
parlor.  She  then  joined  them  soon  enough  to  see 
Lydia,  with  anxious  parade,  walk  up  to  her  mother's 
172 


LYDIA    BENNET  S    WEDDING 

right  hand,  and  hear  her  say  to  her  eldest  sister, 
"Ah,  Jane,  I  take  your  place  now,  and  you  must 
go  lower,  because  I  am  a  married  woman." 

It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  time  would  gi^«» 
Lydia  that  embarrassment  from  which  she  had  bei 
so  wholly  free  at  first.  Her  ease  and  good  spiri..^ 
increased.  She  longed  to  see  Mrs.  Pliilips,  the  Lu- 
cases, and  all  their  other  neighbors,  and  to  hear  her- 
self called  "  Mrs.  Wickham"  by  each  of  them;  and  in 
the  meantime  she  went  after  dinner  to  show  her 
ring,  and  boast  of  being  married,  to  Mrs.  Hill  and 
the  two  housemaids. 

"  Well,  mamma,"  said  she,  when  they  were  all  re- 
turned to  the  breakfast-room,  "  and  what  do  you 
think  of  my  husband?  Is  not  he  a  charming  man? 
I  am  sure  my  sisters  must  all  envy  me.  I  only  hope 
they  may  have  half  my  good-luck.  They  must  all  go 
to  Brighton — that  is  the  place  to  get  husbands. 
What  a  pity  it  is,  mamma,  we  did  not  all  go." 

"Very  true;  and  if  I  had  my  will  we  should.  But, 
my  dear  Lydia,  I  don't  at  all  like  your  going  such  a 
way  off.     Must  it  be  so?" 

"O  Lord!  yes;  there  is  nothing  in  that.  I  shall 
like  it  of  all  things.  You  and  papa,  and  my  sisters, 
must  come  down  and  see  us.  We  shall  be  at  New- 
castle all  the  winter,  and  I  dare  say  there  will  be 
some  balls,  and  I  will  take  care  to  get  good  partners 
for  them  all." 

"  I  should  like  it  beyond  anything,"  said  her 
mother. 

"  And  then  when  you  go  away  you  may  leave  one 
or  two  of  my  sisters  behind  you,  and  I  dare  say  I 
shall  get  husbands  for  them  before  the  winter  is 
over." 

"  I  thank  you  for  my  share  of  the  favor,"  said 
Elizabeth ;  "  but  I  do  not  particularly  like  your  way 
of  getting  husbands." 

Their  visitors  were  not  to  remain  above  ten  days 

173 


JANE    AUSTEN 

with  them.  Mr.  Wicknaixi  had  received  his  commis- 
sion before  he  left  London,  and  he  was  to  join  his 
regiment  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight. 

No  one  but  Mrs.  Bennet  regretted  that  their  stay 
would  be  so  short;  and  she  made  the  most  of  her 
time  by  visiting  about  with  her  daughter,  and  having 
very  frequent  parties  at  home.  These  parties  were 
acceptable  to  all;  to  avoid  a  family  circle  was  even 
more  desirable  to  such  as  did  think  than  such  as  did 
not. 

Wickham's  affection  for  Lydia  was  just  what  Eliz- 
abeth had  expected  to  find  it — not  equal  to  Lydia's 
lOr  him.  She  had  scarcely  needed  her  present  ob- 
servation to  be  satisfied,  from  the  reason  of  things, 
that  their  elopement  had  been  brought  on  by  the 
strength  of  her  love  rather  than  by  his;  and  she 
would  have  wondered  why,  without  violently  caring 
for  her,  he  chose  to  elope  with  her  at  all,  had  she  not 
felt  certain  that  his  flight  was  rendered  necessary  bj" 
distress  of  circumstances;  and  if  that  were  the  case, 
he  was  not  the  young  man  to  resist  the  opportunity 
of  having  a  companion. 

Lydia  was  exceedingly  fond  of  him.  He  was  her 
dear  Wickham  on  every  occasion;  no  one  was  to 
be  put  in  competition  with  him.  He  did  everything 
best  in  the  world;  and  she  was  sure  he  would  kill 
more  birds  on  the  first  of  September  than  anybody 
else  in  the  country. 

One  morning,  soon  after  their  arrival,  as  she  was 
sitting  with  her  two  elder  sisters,  she  said  to  Eliza- 
beth: 

"  Lizzy,  I  never  gave  you  an  account  of  my  wed- 
ding, I  believe.  You  were  not  by  when  I  told 
mamma,  and  the  others  all  about  it.  Are  not  you 
jurious  to  hear  how  it  was  managed  ?  " 

"No,  really,"  rephed  Elizabeth;  "I  think  there 
cannot  be  too  little  said  on  the  subject." 

"La!    You  are  so  strange!     But  I  must  tell  you 

174 


LYDIA    BENNET  S    WEDDING 

how  It  went  off.  We  were  married,  you  know,  at 
St.  Clement's,  because  Wickham's  lodgings  were  in 
that  parish.  And  it  was  settled  that  we  should  all 
be  there  by  eleven  o'clock.  My  uncle  and  aunt  and 
I  were  to  go  together,  and  the  others  were  to  meet 
us  at  the  church.  Well,  Monday  morning  came,  and 
I  was  in  such  a  fuss !  I  was  so  afraid,  you  know, 
that  something  would  happen  to  put  it  off,  and 
then  I  should  have  gone  quite  distracted.  And  there 
was  my  aunt,  all  the  time  I  was  dressing,  preaching 
and  talking  away  just  as  if  she  was  reading  a  ser- 
mon. However,  I  did  not  hear  above  one  word  in 
ten,  for  I  was  thinking,  you  may  suppose,  of  my 
dear  Wickham.  I  longed  to  know  whether  he  would 
be  married  in  his  blue  coat. 

"  Well,  and  so  we  breakfasted  at  ten,  as  usual.  1 
thought  it  would  never  be  over,  for,  by  the  bye,  you 
are  to  understand  that  my  uncle  and  aunt  were  hor- 
rid unpleasant  all  the  time  I  was  with  them.  H 
you'll  believe  me,  I  did  not  once  put  my  foot  out-of- 
doors,  though  I  was  there  a  fortnight.  Not  o^e 
party,  or  scheme,  or  anything.  To  be  sure,  London 
was  rather  thin;  but,  however,  the  Little  Theater 
was  open.  Well,  and  so  just  as  the  carriage  came 
to  the  door,  my  uncle  was  called  away  upon  busi- 
ness to  that  horrid  man,  Mr.  Stone.  And  then,  you 
know,  when  once  they  get  together  there  is  no  end  of 
it.  Well,  I  was  so  frightened  I  did  not  know  what 
to  do,  for  my  uncle  was  to  give  me  away;  and  if  we 
were  beyond  the  hour  we  could  not  be  married  all 
day.  But,  luckily,  he  came  back  again  in  ten  min- 
utes' time,  and  then  we  all  set  out.  However,  I  recol- 
lected afterward  that  if  he  had  been  prevented  go- 
ing, the  wedding  need  not  be  put  off,  for  Mr.  Darcy 
might  have  done  as  well." 

"  Mr.  Darcy  !  "  repeated  Elizabeth,  in  utter  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  he  was  to  come  there  with  Wickham,  you 
175 


JANE    AUSTEN 

know.  But,  gracious  me!  I  quite  forgot.  I  ought 
not  to  have  said  a  word  about  it:  I  promised  them  so 
faithfully!  What  will  Wickham  say?  It  was  to  be 
such  a  secret !  " 

"  If  it  was  to  be  a  secret,"  said  Jane,  "  say  not 
another  word  on  the  subject.  You  may  depend  upon 
my  seeking  no  farther." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Elizabeth,  though  burning 
with  curiosity ;  "  we  will  ask  you  no  questions." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lydia;  "for  if  you  did,  I 
should  certainly  tell  you  all,  and  then  Wickham 
would  be  so  angry ! " 

On  such  encouragement  to  ask,  Elizabeth  was 
forced  to  put  it  out  of  her  power  by  running  away. 

But  to  live  in  ignorance  on  such  a  point  was  im- 
possible; or  at  least  it  was  impossible  not  to  try  for 
information.  Mr.  Darcy  had  been  at  her  sister's  wed- 
ding. It  was  exactly  a  scene,  and  exactly  among 
people,  where  he  had  apparently  least  to  do,  and 
least  temptation  to  go.  Conjectures  as  to  the  mean- 
ing of  it,  rapid  and  wild,  hurried  into  her  brain,  but 
she  was  satisfied  with  none.  Those  that  best  pleased 
her,  as  placing  his  conduct  in  the  noblest  light 
seemed  almost  improbable.  She  could  not  bear  such 
suspense;  and  hastily  seizing  a  sheet  of  paper,  wrote 
a  short  letter  to  her  aunt,  to  request  an  explanation 
of  what  Lydia  had  dropped,  if  it  were  compatible 
with  the  secrecy  which  had  been  intended. 

"  You  may  readily  comprehend,"  she  added,  "  what 
my  curiosity  must  be  to  know  how  a  person  uncon- 
nected with  any  of  us,  and,  comparatively  speaking, 
a  stranger  to  our  family,  should  have  been  among 
you  at  such  a  time.  Pray  write  instantly,  and  let  me 
understand  it — unless  it  is,  for  very  cogent  reasons, 
to  remain  in  the  secrecy  which  Lydia  seems  to  think 
necessary;  and  then  I  must  endeavor  to  be  satisfied 
with  ignorance. 

"  Not  that  T  s\iall,  though,"  she  added  to  herself, 

176 


BENNET    AND    COLLINS    PLAY    BACKGAMMON 

and  she  finished  the  letter:  "' rtnd,  my  dear  aunt,  if 
you  do  not  tell  me  in  an  honorable  manner,  I  shall 
certainly  be  reduced  to  tricks  and  stratagems  to  find 
it  out." 

Jane's  delicate  sense  of  honor  would  not  allow  her 
to  speak  to  Elizabeth  privately  of  what  Lydia  had  let 
fall;  Elizabeth  was  glad  of  it;  till  it  appeared 
whether  her  inquiries  would  receive  any  satisfaction, 
she  had  rather  be  without  a  confidante. 


MR.  BENNET  AND  MR.  COLLINS  PLAY 
BACKGAMMON 

(From  "  Pride  and  Prejudice  ") 

DURING  dinner,  Mr.  Bennet  scarcely  spoke  at 
all;  but  when  the  servants  were  withdrawn  he 
thought  it  time  to  have  some  conversation  with  his 
guest,  and  therefore  started  a  subject  in  which  h? 
expected  him  to  shine,  by  observing  that  he  seemed 
very  fortunate  in  his  patroness.  Lady  Catherme  de 
Bourgh's  attention  to  his  wishes,  and  consideration 
for  his  comfort,  appeared  very  remarkable.  Mr. 
Bennet  could  not  have  chosen  better.  Mr.  Collins 
was  eloquent  in  her  praise.  The  subject  elevated 
him  to  more  than  usual  solemnity  of  manner;  and 
with  a  most  important  aspect  he  protested  that  "  he 
had  never  in  his  life  witnessed  such  behavior  in  a 
person  of  rank,  such  affability  and  condescension, 
as  he  had  himself  experienced  from  Lady  Catherine. 
She  had  been  graciously  pleased  to  approve  of  both 
the  discourses  vihich  he  had  already  had  the  honor  of 
preaching  before  her.  She  had  also  asked  him  twice 
to  dine  at  Rosings,  and  had  sent  for  him  only  the 
Saturday  before,  to  make  up  her  pool  of  quadrille 
in  the  evening.  Lady  Catherine  was  reckoned  proud 
by  many  people,  he  knew,  but  he  had  never  seen 
anything    but    affability    in    her.      She    had    always 

177 


JANE    AUSTEN 

spoken  to  him  as  she  would  to  any  other  gentleman; 
she  made  not  the  smallest  objection  to  his  joining 
in  the  society  of  the  neighborhood,  nor  to  his  leav- 
ing his  parish  occasionally  for  a  week  or  two  to  visit 
his  relations.  She  had  even  condescended  to  advise 
him  to  marry  as  soon  as  he  could,  provided  he  chose 
with  discretion;  and  had  once  paid  him  a  visit  in  his 
humble  parsonage,  where  she  had  j^erfectly  approved 
all  the  alterations  he  had  been  making,  and  had  even 
vouchsafed  to  suggest  some  herself — some  shelves  in 
the  closets  upstairs. 

"  That  is  all  very  proper  and  civil,  I  am  sure,'* 
said  Mrs.  Bennet,  and  I  dare  say  she  is  a  very  agree- 
able woman.  It  is  a  pity  that  great  ladies  in  general 
are  not  more  like  her.    Does  she  live  near  you,  sir?  '* 

"  The  garden  in  which  stands  my  humble  abode  i:^ 
separated  only  by  a  lane  from  Rosings  Park,  her 
ladyship's   residence." 

*'  I  think  you  said  she  was  a  widow,  sir ;  has  she 
any  family  ? " 

*'  She  has  only  one  daughter,  the  heiress  of  Rosings, 
and  of  very  extensive  property." 

"  Ah,"  cried  Mrs.  Bennet,  shaking  her  head,  "  then 
she  is  better  off  than  many  girls.  And  what  sort 
of  young  lady  is  she?     Is  she  handsome?" 

"  She  is  a  most  charming  young  lady  indeed. 
Lady  Catherine  herself  says  that,  in  point  of  true 
beauty.  Miss  de  Bourgh  is  far  superior  to  the  hand- 
somest of  her  sex,  because  there  is  that  in  her  fea- 
tures which  marks  the  young  woman  of  distinguished 
birth.  She  is  unfortunately  of  a  sickly  <!onstitution, 
which  has  prevented  her  making  that  progress  in 
many  accomplishments  which  she  could  not  other- 
wise have  failed  of,  as  I  am  informed  by  the  lady 
who  superintended  her  education,  and  who  still  re- 
sides with  them.  But  she  is  perfectly  amiable,  and 
often  condescends  to  drive  by  my  humble  abode  in 
tier  little  phaeton  and  ponies." 

178 


BENNET    AND    COLLINS    PLAY   BACKGaAIMON 

"  Has  she  been  presented?  I  do  pot  remember  her 
name  among  the  ladies  at  court. 

"  Her  indifferent  state  of  health  unhappily  pre- 
vents her  being  in  town;  and  by  that  means,  as  I 
told  Lady  Catherine  myself  one  day,  has  deprived 
the  British  court  of  its  brightest  ornament.  Her 
ladyship  seemed  pleased  with  the  idea;  and  you  may 
imagine  that  I  am  happy  on  every  occasion  to  offer 
those  little  delicate  compliments  which  are  always 
acceptable  to  ladies.  I  have  more  than  once  ob- 
served to  Lady  Catherine  that  her  charming  daughter 
seemed  born  to  be  a  duchess,  and  that  the  most  ele- 
vated rank,  instead  of  giving  her  consequence,  would 
be  adorned  by  her.  These  are  the  kind  of  little 
things  which  please  her  ladyship,  and  it  is  a  sort  of 
attention  which  I  conceive  myself  peculiarly  bound 
to  pay." 

"You  judge  very  properly,"  said  Mr.  Bennet; 
"  and  it  is  happy  for  you  that  you  possess  the  talent 
of  flattering  with  delicacy.  May  I  ask  whether  these 
pleasing  attentions  proceed  from  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  or  are  the  result  of  previous  study?" 

"  They  arise  chiefly  from  what  is  passing  at  the 
time;  and  though  I  sometimes  amuse  myself  with 
suggesting  and  arranging  such  little  elegant  compli- 
ments as  may  be  adapted  to  ordinary  occasions,  I  al- 
ways wish  to  give  them  as  unstudied  an  air  as  possi- 
ble." 

Mr.  Bennet's  expectations  were  fully  answered. 
His  cousin  was  as  absurd  as  he  had  hoped;  and  he 
listened  to  him  with  the  keenest  enjoyment,  main- 
taining at  the  same  time  the  most  absolute  com- 
posure of  countenance,  and,  except  in  an  occasional 
glance  at  Elizabeth,  requiring  no  partner  in  his 
pleasure. 

By  tea-time,  however,  the  dose  had  been  enough, 
and  Mr.  Bennet  was  glad  to  take  his  guest  into  the 
drawing-room  again,  and  when  tea  was  over,  glad 

-179 


JANE    AUSTEN 

to  invite  him  to  read  aloud  to  the  ladies.  Mr.  Col- 
lins readily  assented,  and  a  book  was  produced;  but 
on  beholding  it  (for  everything  announced  it  to  be 
from  a  circulating  library)  he  started  back,  and, 
begging  pardon,  protested  that  he  never  read  novels. 
Kitty  stared  at  him,  and  Lydia  exclaimed.  Other 
books  were  produced,  and  after  some  deliberation  he 
chose  "  Fordyce's  Sermons."  Lydia  gaped  as  he 
opened  the  volume;  and  before  he  had,  with  very 
monotonous  solemnity,  read  three  pages,  she  inter- 
rupted him  with — 

"  Do  you  know,  mamma,  that  my  Uncle  Philips 
talks  of  turning  away  Richard?  and  if  he  does.  Col- 
onel Forster  will  hire  him.  My  aunt  told  me  so  her- 
self on  Saturday.  I  shall  walk  to  Meryton  to-mor- 
row to  hear  more  about  it,  and  to  ask  when  Mr. 
Denny  comes  back  from  town. 

Lydia  was  bid  by  her  two  eldest  sisters  to  hold  her 
tongue;  but  Mr.  Collins,  much  offended,  laid  aside 
his  book,  and  said: 

"  I  have  often  observed  how  little  young  ladies  are 
interested  by  books  of  a  serious  stamp,  though  solely 
vritten  for  their  benefit.  It  amazes  me,  I  confess; 
ior  certainly  there  can  be  nothing  so  advantageous 
to  them  as  instruction.  But  I  will  no  longer  impor- 
tune my  young  cousin." 

Then,  turning  to  Mr.  Bennet,  he  offered  himself 
as  his  antagonist  at  backgammon.  Mr.  Bennet  ac- 
cepted the  challenge,  observing  that  he  acted  very 
wisely  in  leaving  the  girls  to  their  own  trifling  amuse- 
ments. Mrs.  Bennet  and  her  daughters  apologized 
most  civilly  for  Lydia's  interruption,  and  promised 
that  it  should  not  occur  again,  if  he  would  resume  his 
book;  but  Mr.  Collins,  after  assuring  them  that  he 
bore  his  young  cousin  no  ill-will,  and  should  never  re- 
sent her  behavior  as  any  affront,  seated  himself  at 
another  table  with  Mr.  Bennet,  and  prepared  for 
backgammon. 

180 


IRVING   BACHELLER 

Irvixg  Bacheller  was  born  at  Pierpont,  N,  Y., 
''n  1859.  For  many  years  he  was  in  active  news- 
paper work  in  New  York  City,  and  until  recently 
an  editor  of  the  World.  He  has  written  several 
novels,  the  most  popular  being-  "  Eben  Holden  "  and 
"D'riand  I." 

THE    SEA   FIGHT 

(From  "  D'ri  and  I."    Copyright  by  Lothrop  Publishing  Com- 
pany, and  used  by  permission) 

THE  cry  of  "Sail  ho!"  woke  me  early  one  morn- 
ing. It  was  the  10th  of  September.  The  en- 
emy was  coming.  Sails  were  sticking  out  of  the 
misty  dawn  a  few  miles  away.  In  a  moment  our 
decks  were  black  and  noisy  with  the  hundred  and 
two  that  manned  the  vessel.  It  was  every  hand  to 
rope  and  windlass  then.  Sails  went  up  with  a  snap 
all  around  us,  and  the  creak  of  blocks  sounded  far 
and  near.  In  twelve  minutes  we  were  under  way, 
leading  the  van  to  battle.  The  sun  came  up,  light- 
ing the  great  towers  of  canvas.  Every  vessel  was 
now  feeling  for  the  wind,  some  with  oars  and  sweeps 
to  aid  them.  A  light  breeze  came  out  of  the  south- 
west. Perry  stood  near  me,  his  hat  in  his  hand.  He 
was  looking  back  at  the  Nidf/aya. 

"  Run  to  the  leeward  of  the  islands,"  said  he  to  the 
sailing-master. 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  fight  to  the  leeward,"  said 
the  latter. 

"  Don't  care,  so  long  as  we  fight,"  said  Perry. 
"  Windward  or  leeward,  we  want  to  fight." 

Then  came  the  signal  to  change  our  course.  The 
wind    shifting   to   the   southeast,   we    were   all    able 


IRVING    BACHELLER 

to  clear  the  islands  and  keep  the  weather-gage.  A 
cloud  came  over  the  sun;  far  away  the  mist  thick- 
ened. The  enemy  wallowed  to  the  topsails,  and 
■went  out  of  sight.  We  had  lost  the  wind.  Our 
sails  went  limp;  flag  and  pennant  hung  lifeless.  A 
light  rain  drizzled  down,  breaking  the  smooth  plane 
of  water  into  crowding  rings  and  bubbles.  Perry- 
stood  out  in  the  drizzle  as  we  lay  waiting.  All  eye£ 
were  turning  to  the  sky  and  to  Perry.  He  had  a 
look  of  worry  and  disgust.  He  was  out  for  a  quar- 
rel, though  the  surgeon  said  he  was  in  more  need 
of  physic,  having  the  fever  of  malaria  as  well  as  that 
of  war.  He  stood  there,  tall  and  handsome,  in  a 
loose  jacket  of  blue  nankeen,  with  no  sign  of  weak- 
ness in  him,  his  eyes  flashing  as  he  looked  up  at  the 
sky. 

D'ri  and  I  stood  in  the  squad  at  the  bow  gun.  D'ri 
was  wearing  an  old  straw  hat;  his  flannel  shirt  was 
open  at  the  collar. 

"  Ship  Stan's  luk  an  ol'  cow  chawin'  'er  cud,"  said 
he,  looking  off^  at  the  weather.  "  They's  a  win'  comin* 
over  there.  It'll  give  'er  a  slap  'n  th'  side  purty 
soon,  mebbe.  Then  she'll  switch  'er  tail  'n'  go  on 
'bout  'er  business." 

In  a  moment  we  heard  a  roaring  cheer  back  amid- 
ships. Perry  had  come  up  the  companionway  with 
his  blue  battle-flag.  He  held  it  before  him  at  arm's- 
length.  I  could  see  a  part  of  its  legend,  in  white 
letters,  "  Don't  give  up  the  ship." 

"My  brave  lads,"  he  shouted,  "shall  we  hoist  it?  '* 

Our  "  Ay,  ay,  sir ! "  could  have  been  heard  a  mile 
away,  and  the  flag  rose,  above  tossing  hats  and  howl- 
ing voices,  to  the  mainroyalmasthead. 

The  wind  came;  we  could  hear  the  sails  snap  and 
stiffen  as  it  overhauled  the  fleet  behind  us.  In  a 
jiffy  it  bunted  our  own  hull  and  canvas,  and  again 
we  began  to  plough  the  water.  It  grew  into  a  smart 
breeze,  and  scattered  the  fleet  of  clouds  that  hovered 
189 


THE    SEA    FIGHT 

over  us.  The  rain  passed;  sunlight  sparkled  on  the 
rippling  plane  of  water.  We  could  now  see  the 
enemy;  he  had  hove  to,  and  was  waiting  for  us  in 
a  line.  A  crowd  was  gathering  on  the  high  shores 
we  had  left  to  see  the  battle.  We  were  well  in  ad- 
vance, crowding  our  canvas  in  a  good  breeze.  I 
could  hear  only  the  roaring  furrows  of  water  on 
each  side  of  the  prow.  Every  man  of  us  held  his 
tongue,  mentally  trimming  ship,  as  they  say,  for 
whatever  might  come.  Three  men  scuffled  by,  sand- 
ing the  decks.  D'ri  was  leaning  placidly  over  the 
big  gun.  He  looked  off  at  the  white  line,  squinted 
knowingly,  and  spat  over  the  bulwarks.  Then  he 
straightened  up,  tilting  his  hat  to  his  right  ear. 

"  They're  p'intin'  their  guns,"  said  a  swabber. 

"  Fust  they  know  they'll  git  spit  on,"  said  D'ri, 
calmly. 

Well,  for  two  hours  it  was  all  creeping  and  talk- 
ing under  the  breath,  and  here  and  there  an  oath  as 
some  nervous  chap  tightened  the  ropes  of  his  resolu- 
tion. Then  suddenly,  as  we  swung  about,  a  murmur 
went  up  and  down  the  deck.  We  could  see  with 
our  naked  eyes  the  men  who  were  to  give  us  battle. 
Perry  shouted  sternly  to  some  gunners  who  thought 
it  high  time  to  fire.  Then  word  came:  there  would 
be  no  firing  until  we  got  close.  Little  gusts  of  music 
came  chasing  over  the  water  faint-footed  to  our 
decks — a  band  playing  "  Rule  Britannia."  I  was 
looking  at  a  brig  in  the  line  of  the  enem}''  when  a 
bolt  of  fire  leaped  out  of  her  and  thick  belches  of 
smoke  rushed  to  her  topsails.  Then  something  hit 
the  sea  near  by  with  a  great  hissing  slap,  and  we 
turned  quickly  to  see  chunks  of  the  shattered  lake 
surface  fly  up  in  nets  of  spray  and  fall  roaring  on 
our  deck.  We  were  all  drenched  there  at  the  bo^ 
gun.  I  remember  some  of  those  water-drops  had  the 
sting  of  hard-flung  pebl^les,  but  we  only  bent  our 
heads,  waiting  eagerly  for  the  word  to  fire 

183 


IRVING    BACHELLER 

"  We  was  th'  ones  'at  got  spit  on,"  said  a  gunner, 
looking  at  D'ri. 

"Wish  they'd  let  us  holler  back,"  said  the  lattei* 
placidly.     "  Sick  o'  holdin'  in." 

We  kept  fanning  down  upon  the  enemy,  now  little 
more  than  a  mile  away,  signalling  the  fleet  to  follow. 

"  My  God !  see  there ! "  a  gunner  shouted. 

The  British  line  had  turned  into  a  reeling,  whirl- 
ing ridge  of  smoke  lifting  over  spurts  of  flame  at 
the  bottom.  We  knew  what  was  coming.  Untried  in 
the  perils  of  shot  and  shell,  some  of  my  gunners 
stooped  to  cover  under  the  bulwarks. 

"  Pull  'em  out  o'  there,"  I  called,  turning  to  D'ri, 
who  stood  beside  me. 

The  storm  of  iron  hit  us.  A  heavy  ball  crashed 
into  the  after  bulwarks,  tearing  them  away  and 
slamming  over  gun  and  carriage,  that  slid  a  space, 
grinding  the  gunners  under  it.  One  end  of  a  bow- 
line whipped  over  us;  a  jib  dropped;  a  brace  fell 
crawling  over  my  shoulders  like  a  big  snake;  the 
foremast  went  into  splinters  a  few  feet  above  the 
deck,  its  top  falling  over,  its  canvas  sagging  in  great 
folds.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a  second.  That  hasty 
flight  of  iron,  coming  out  of  the  air,  thick  as  a  flock 
of  pigeons,  had  gone  through  hull  and  rigging  in  a 
wink  of  the  eye.  And  a  fine  mess  it  had  made.  Men 
lay  scattered  along  the  deck,  bleeding,  yelling,  strug- 
gling. There  were  two  lying  near  us  with  blood 
spurting  out  of  their  necks.  One  rose  upon  a  knee, 
choking  horribly,  shaken  with  the  last  throes  of  his 
flooded  heart,  and  reeled  over.  The  Scorpion  of 
our  fleet  had  got  her  guns  in  action;  the  little  Ariel 
was  also  firing.    D'ri  leaned  over,  shouting  in  my  ear. 

"Don't  like  th'  way  they're  whalin'  uv  us,"  he 
said,  his  cheeks  red  with  anger. 

"  Nor  I,"  was  my  answer. 

"  Don't  like  t'  stan'  here  an'  dew  nuthin'  but  git 
licked,"  he  went  on.    "  'T  ain'  no  way  nat'ral." 
184 


THE    SEA    FIGHT 

Perry  came  hurrying  forward. 

"Fire!"  he  commanded,  with  a  quick  gesture,  and 
we  began  to  warm  up  our  big  twenty-pounder  there 
in  the  bow.  But  the  deadly  scuds  of  iron  kept  fly- 
ing over  and  upon  our  deck,  bursting  into  awful 
showers  of  bolt  and  chain  and  spike  and  hammer- 
heads. We  saw  shortly  that  our  brig  was  badly  out 
of  gear.  She  began  to  drift  to  leeward,  and  being 
unable  to  aim  at  the  enemy,  we  could  make  no  use  of 
the  bow  gun.  Every  brace  and  bowline  cut  away, 
her  canvas  torn  to  rags,  her  hull  shot  through,  and 
half  her  men  dead  or  wounded,  she  was,  indeed,  a 
sorry  sight.  The  Niagara  went  by  on  the  safe  side 
of  us,  heedless  of  our  plight.  Perry  stood  near,  curs- 
ing as  he  looked  off  at  her.  Two  of  my  gunners 
had  been  hurt  by  bursting  canister.  D'ri  and  I 
picked  them  up,  and  made  for  the  cockpit.  D'ri's 
man  kept  howling  and  kicking.  As  we  hurried  over 
the  bloody  deck,  there  came  a  mighty  crash  beside 
us  and  a  burst  of  old  iron  that  tumbled  me  to  my 
knees. 

A  cloud  of  smoke  covered  us.  I  felt  the  man  I 
bore  struggle  and  then  go  limp  in  my  arms;  I  felt 
my  knees  getting  warm  and  wet.  The  smoke  rose; 
the  tall,  herculean  back  of  D'ri  was  just  ahead  of 
me.  His  sleeve  had  been  ripped  away  from  shoul- 
der to  elbow,  and  a  spray  of  blood  from  his  upper 
arm  was  flying  back  upon  me.  His  hat  crown  had 
been  torn  off,  and  there  was  a  big  rent  In  his 
trousers,  but  he  kept  going.  I  saw  my  man  had 
been  killed  in  my  arms  by  a  piece  of  chain,  buried 
to  its  last  link  in  his  breast.  I  was  so  confused  by 
the  shock  of  it  all  that  I  had  not  the  sense  to  lay 
him  down,  but  followed  D'ri  to  the  cockpit.  He 
stumbled  on  the  stairs,  falling  heavily  with  his 
burden.  Then  I  dropped  my  poor  gunner  and 
helped  them  carry  D'ri  to  a  table,  where  they 
bade  me  lie  down  beside  him. 

185 


IRVING    BACHELLER 

"It  is  no  time  for  jesting,"  said  I,  with  some  dig- 
nity. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  the  surgeon  answered,  "your 
wound  is  no  jest.    You  are  not  fit  for  duty." 

I  looked  down  at  the  big  hole  in  my  trousers  and 
the  cut  in  my  thigh,  of  which  I  had  known  nothing 
until  then.  I  had  no  sooner  seen  it  and  the  blood 
than  I  saw  that  I  also  was  in  some  need  of  repair, 
and  lay  down  with  a  quick  sense  of  faintness.  My 
wound  was  no  pretty  thing  to  see,  but  was  of  little 
consequence,  a  missile  having  torn  the  surface  only. 
I  was  able  to  help  Surgeon  Usher  as  he  caught  the 
severed  veins  and  bathed  the  bloody  strands  of  mus- 
cle in  D'ri's  arm,  while  another  dressed  my  thigh. 
That  room  was  full  of  the  wounded,  some  lying  on 
the  floor,  some  standing,  some  stretched  upon  cots 
and  tables.  Every  moment  they  were  crowding  down 
the  companionway  with  others.  The  cannonading 
was  now  so  close  and  heavy  that  it  gave  me  an  ache 
in  the  ears,  but  above  its  quaking  thunder  I  could 
hear  the  shrill  cries  of  men  sinking  to  hasty  death 
in  the  grip  of  pain.  The  brig  was  in  sore  distress,  her 
timbers  creaking,  snapping,  quivering,  like  one  be- 
ing beaten  to  death,  his  bones  cracking,  his  mus- 
cles pulping  under  heavy  blows.  We  were  above 
water-line  there  in  the  cockpit;  we  could  feel  her 
flinch  and  stagger.  On  her  side  there  came  sud- 
denly a  crushing  blow,  as  if  some  great  hammer, 
swung  far  in  the  sky,  had  come  down  upon  her.  I 
could  hear  the  split  and  break  of  heavy  timbers;  I 
could  see  splinters  flying  over  me  in  a  rush  of  smoke, 
and  the  legs  of  a  man  go  bumping  on  the  beams 
above.  Then  came  another  crash  of  timbers  on  the 
port  side.  I  leaped  off  the  table  and  ran,  limping, 
to  the  deck,  I  do  not  know  why;  I  was  driven  by 
some  quick  and  irresistible  impulse.  I  was  near  out 
of  my  head,  anyway,  with  the  rage  of  battle  in  me 
and  no  chance  to  fight.    Well,  suddenly,  I  found  my- 

186 


THE    SEA    FIGHT 

self  stumbling:,  with  drawn  sabre,  over  heaps  of  the 
hurt  and  dead  there  on  our  reeking  deck.  It  was 
a  horrible  place:  everything  tipped  over,  man  and 
gun  and  mast  and  bulwark.  The  air  was  full  of 
smoke,  but  near  me  I  could  see  a  topsail  of  the 
enemy.  Balls  were  now  plunging  in  the  water  along- 
side, the  spray  drenching  our  deck.  Some  poor 
man  lying  low  among  the  dead  caught  me  by  the 
boot-leg  with  an  appealing  gesture.  I  took  hold  of 
his  collar,  dragging  him  to  the  cockpit.  The  surgeon 
had  just  finished  with  D'ri.  His  arm  was  now  in 
shng  and  bandages.  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  the 
good  arm  over  his  face.  There  was  a  lull  in  the 
cannonading.     I   went  quickly  to  his  side. 

"How  are  you  feeling?"  I  asked,  giving  his  hand 
a  good  grip. 

"  Nuthin'  t'  brag  uv,"  he  answered.  "  Never  see 
nobody  git  hell  rose  with  'em  's  quick  es  we  did — 
never." 

Just  then  we  heard  the  voice  of  Perry.  He  stood 
on  the  stairs  calling  into  the  cockpit. 

"  Can  any  wounded  man  below  there  pull  a  rope?  '* 
he  shouted. 

D'ri  was  on  his  feet  in  a  jiffy,  and  we  were  both 
clambering  to  the  deck  as  another  scud  of  junk  went 
over  us.  Perry  was  trying,  with  block  and  tackle,  to 
mount  a  carronade.  A  handful  of  men  were  helping 
him.  D'ri  rushed  to  the  ropes,  I  following,  and  we 
both  pulled  with  a  will.  A  sailor  who  had  been  hit 
in  the  legs  hobbled  up,  asking  for  room  on  the  rope. 
I  told  him  he  could  be  of  no  use,  but  he  spat  an 
oath,  and  pointing  at  my  leg,  which  was  now  bleed- 
ing, swore  he  was  sounder  than  I,  and  put  up  his 
fists  to  prove  it.  I  have  seen  no  better  show  of  pluck 
in  all  my  fighting,  nor  any  that  ever  gave  me  a 
greater  pride  of  my  own  people  and  my  country. 
War  is  a  great  evil,  I  begin  to  think,  but  there  is 
nothing  finer  than  the  sight  of  a  man  who,  forgetting 

187 


IRVING    BACHELLER 

himself,   rushes  into  the  shadow   of   death   for  the  j 
sake  of  something  that  is  better.     At  every  heave  \ 
on  the  rope  our  blood  came  out  of  us,  until  a  ball  i 
shattered   a  pulley,   and  the   gun   fell.     Perry  had . , 
then  a  fierce  look,  but  his  words  were  cool,  his  man-  j 
ner  dauntless.     He  peered  through  lifting  clouds  of  i 
smoke  at  our  line.     He  stood  near  me,  and  his  head  j 
was  bare.     He  crossed  the  littered  deck,  his  battle- 
flag  and  broad  pennant  that  an  orderly  had  brought 
him  trailing  from  his  shoulder.     He  halted  by  a  boat 
swung  at  the  davits  on  the  port  side — the  only  one  that 
had  not  gone  to  splinters.     There  he  called  a  crew 
about  him,  and  all   got  quickly  aboard  the  boat — 
seven  besides  the  younger  brother  of  Captain  Perry 
— and  lowered  it.   Word  flew  that  he  was  leaving 
to  take  command  of  the  sister  brig,  the  Niagara, 
which  lay  off  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so  from  where- 
we  stood.  We  all  wished  to  go,  but  he  would  have 
only  sound  men;  there  were  not  a  dozen  on  the 
ship  who  had  all  their  blood  in  them.    As  they 
pulled   away,   Perry  standing  in  the  stern,  D'ri 
lifted  a  bloody,  tattered  flag,  and  leaning  from  tht 
bulwarks,  shook  it  over  them,  cheering  loudly. 

"  Give  it  to  'em!  "  he  shouted.  "We'll  tek  care 
0'  the  or  brig." 

We  were  all  crying,  we  poor  devils  that  were 
left  behind.  One,  a  mere  boy,  stood  near  me 
swinging  his  hat  above  his  head,  cheering.  Hat 
and  hand  fell  to  the  deck  as  I  turned  to  him.  He 
"was  reeling,  when  D'ri  caught  him  quickly  with 
his  good  arm  and  bore  him  to  the  cockpit. 

The  little  boat  was  barely  a  length  off  when  heavy 
shot  fell  splashing  in  her  wake.  Soon  they  were 
dropping  all  around  her.  One  crossed  her  bow,  rip- 
ping a  long  furrow  in  the  sea.  A  chip  flew  off  her 
stern;  a  lift  of  splinters  from  an  oar  scattered  be- 
hind her.  Plunging  missiles  marked  her  course  with 
a  plait  of  foam,  but  she  rode  on  bravely.  We  saw 
188 


THE    SEA     FIGHT 

her  groping  under  the  smoke  clouds;  we  saw  her 
nearing  the  other  brig,  and  were  all  on  tiptoe.  The 
air  cleared  a  little,  and  we  could  see  them  ship  oars 
and  go  up  the  side.  Then  we  set  our  blood  drip- 
ping with  cheers  again,  we  who  were  wounded  there 
on  the  deck  of  the  Lawrence.  Lieutenant  Yarnell 
ordered  her  one  flag  down.  As  it  sank  fluttering,  we 
groaned.  Our  dismay  went  quickly  from  man  to 
man.  Presently  we  could  hear  the  cries  of  the 
wounded  there  below.  A  man  came  staggering  out 
of  the  cockpit,  and  fell  to  his  hands  and  knees, 
creeping  toward  us  and  protesting  fiercely,  the  blood 
dripping  from  his  mouth  between  curses. 

"  Another  shot  would  sink  her,"  Yarnell  shouted. 
"  Let  'er  sink,"  said  D'ri.   "  Wish  t'  God  I  c'u'd 
put  my  foot  through  'er  bottom.    When  the  flag 
goes  down  I  wan't  t'  go  tew\' 

The  British  turned  their  guns;  we  were  no  longer 
in  the  smoky  paths  of  thundering  canister.  The 
Niagara  was  now  under  fire.  We  could  see  the  dogs 
of  war  rurhing  at  her  in  leashes  of  flame  and  smoke. 
Oui  little  gunboats,  urged  by  oar  and  sweep,  were 
hastening  to  the  battle  front.  We  could  see  their 
men,  waist->iigh  above  bulwarks,  firing  as  they  came. 
The  Detroi.  and  the  Queen  Charlotte,  two  heavy 
brigs  of  the  British  line,  had  run  afoul  of  each 
other.  The  Niagara,  signalling  for  close  action,  bore 
down  upon  them.  Crossing  the  bow  of  one  ship  and 
the  stern  of  the  other,  she  raked  them  with  broad- 
sides. We  saw  braces  fly  and  masts  fall  in  the  vol- 
ley. The  Niagara  sheered  off,  pouring  shoals  of 
metal  on  a  British  schooner,  stripping  her  bare.  Our 
little  boats  had  come  up,  and  were  boring  into  the 
brigs.  In  a  brief  time — it  was  then  near  three  o'clock 
— a  white  flag,  at  the  end  of  a  boarding-pike,  flut- 
tered over  a  British  deck.  D'ri,  who  had  been  sit- 
ting awhile,  was  now  up  and  cheering  as  he  waved 
his  crownless  hat.     He  had  lent  his  flag,  and,  in  the 

189 


IRVING    BACHELLER 

flurry,  some  one  dropped  it  overboard.     D'ri  saw  it  i 
fall,  and  before  we  could  stop  him  he  had  leaped 
into  the  sea.     I  hastened  to  his  help,  tossing  a  rope's 
end  as  he  came  up,  swimming  with  one  arm,  the  flag  l 
in  his  teeth.     I  towed  him  to  the  landing-stair  and  1 
helped  him  over.     Leaning  on  my  shoulder,  he  shook  ' 
out  the  tattered  flag,  its  white  laced  with  his  own 
blood.  I 

Each  grabbed  a  tatter  of  the  good  flag,  pressing ,' 
hard  upon  D'ri,  and  put  it  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it 
proudly.      Then    we    marched    up    and    down,    D'ri  ', 
waving  it  above  us — a  bloody  squad  as  ever  walked, 
shouting   loudly.     D'ri   had   begun   to  weaken   with 
loss  of  blood,  so  I  coaxed  him  to  go  below  with  me. 

The  battle  was  over;  a  Yankee  band  was  playing  ' 
near  by.  ' 

"Perry  is  coming!  Perry  is  coming!"  we  heard  ' 
them  shouting  above. 

A  feeble  cry  that  had  in  it  pride  and  joy  and  in-  | 
extinguishable  devotion  passed  many  a  fevered  lip  j 
in  the  cockpit.  j 

There  were  those  near  who  had  won  a  better  ! 
peace,  and  they  lay  as  a  man  that  listens  to  what  ; 
were  now  the  merest  vanity.  i 

Perry  came,  when  the  sun  was  low,  with  a  number  j 
of  British  officers,  and  received  their  surrender  on 
his  own  bloody  deck.  I  remember,  as  they  stood  by  | 
the  ruined  bulwarks  and  looked  down  upon  tokens  | 
of  wreck  and  slaughter,  a  dog  began  howling  dis-  ; 
mally  in  the  cockpit. 


190 


LORD    BACON 

Francis  Bacokt  (Viscount  St.  Alban),  jurist  and 
philosopher,  born  in  London,  1561 ;  died  16:26.  He 
studied  three  years  at  Cambridge  University  and 
then  entered  the  diplomatic  service.  In  1618  he  was 
made  Lord  Chancellor.  His  essays  appeared  in 
1597.  His  histories  of  Henry  VH,  Henry  VHI  and 
Elizabeth  rank  next  in  importance.  His  philosoph- 
ical works  have  received  the  commendation  of  the 
scholars  of  four  centuries. 


TRANSLATION    OF    THE    137TH 
PSALM 

WHENAS  we  sat  all  sad  and  desolate. 
By  Babylon  upon  the  river's  side. 
Eased  from  the  tasks  which  in  our  captive  state 
We  were  enforced  daily  to  abide. 

Our  harps  we  had  brought  with  us  to  the  fieldj 
Some  solace  to  our  heavy  souls  to  yield. 

But  soon  we  found  we  failed  of  our  account. 

For  when  our  minds  some  freedom  did  obtain, 
Straightways  the  memory  of  Sion  Mount 

Did  cause  afresh  our  wounds  to  bleed  again; 
So  that  with  present  gifts,  and  future  fears, 
Our  eyes  burst  forth  into  a  stream  of  tears. 

As  for  our  harps,  since  sorrow  struck  them  dumb. 
We  hanged  them  on  the  willow-trees  were  near; 
Yet  did  our  cruel  masters  to  us  come, 

Asking  of  us  some  Hebrew  songs  to  hear: 
Taunting  us  rather  in  our  misery. 
Than  much  delighting  in  our  melody. 

191. 


LORD    BACON 

Alas  (said  we)  who  can  once  force  or  frame 

His  grieved  and  oppressed  heart  to  sing 
The  praises  of  Jehovah's  glorious  name, 
In  banishment,  under  a  foreign  king? 
In  Sion  is  his  seat  and  dwelling-place. 
Thence  doth  he  show  the  brightness  of  his  face. 

Hierusalem,  where  God  his  throne  hath  set, 

Shall  any  hour  absent  thee  from  my  mind? 
Then  let  my  right  hand  quite  her  skill  forget. 
Then  let  my  voice  and  words  no  passage  find; 
Nay,  if  I  do  not  thee  prefer  in  all 
That  in  the  compass  of  my  thoughts  can  fall. 

Remember  thou,  O  Lord,  the  cruel  cry 

Of  Eden's  children,  which  did  ring  and  sound. 
Inciting  the  Chaldean's  cruelty, 
"  Down  with  it,  down  with  it,  even  unto  the  ground." 
In  that  good  day  repay  it  unto  them. 
When  thou  shalt  visit  thy  Hierusalem. 

And  thou,  O  Babylon,  shalt  have  thy  turn 
By  just  revenge,  and  happy  shall  he  be. 
That  thy  proud  walls  and  towers  shall  waste  and  burn. 
And  as  thou  didst  by  us,  so  do  by  thee. 

Yea,  happy  he  that  takes  thy  children's  bones, 
find  dasheth  them  against  the  pavement  stones. 


LIFE 

THE  World's  a  bubble,  and  the  Life  of  Man 
Less  than  a  span: 
In  his  conception  wretched,  from  the  womb. 

So  to  the  tomb; 
Curst  from  his  cradle,  and  brought  up  to  years 

With  cares  and  fears. 
Who  then  to  frail  mortality  shall  trust. 
But  limns  on  water,  or  but  writes  in  dust. 

192 


OF    LOVE 

Y'et  whilst  with  sorrow  here  we  live  opprest. 

What  life  is  best? 
Courts  are  but  only  superficial  schools 

To  dandle  fools: 
The  rural  parts  are  turn'ed  into  a  den 

Of  savage  men: 
And  Where's  a  city  from  foul  vice  so  free, 
But  may  be  term'd  the  worst  of  all  the  three? 

Domestic  cares  afflict  the  husband's  bed. 

Or  pains  his  head: 
Those  that  live  single,  take  it  for  a  curse, 

Or  do  things  worse: 
some  would  have  children:  those  that  have  theiii» 
moan 

Or  wish  them  gone: 
What  is  it,  then,  to  have,  or  have  no  wife. 
But  single  thraldom,  or  a  double  strife? 

Our  own  affection  still  at  home  to  please 

Is  a  disease: 
To  cross  the  seas  to  any  foreign  soil. 

Peril  and  toil: 
Wars  with  their  noise  affright  us;  when  they  cease 

We  are  worse  in  peace; 
What  then  remains,  but  that  we  still  should  cry 
For  being  born,  or,  being  born,  to  die? 


OF    LOVE 

THE  stage  is  more  beholding  to  love  than  the  life 
of  men ;  for  as  to  the  stage,  love  is  even  mat- 
ter of  comedies,  and  now  and  then  of  tragedies; 
but  in  life  it  doth  much  mischief;  sometimes  like  a 
siren,  sometimes  like  a  fury.  You  may  observe  that 
amongst  all  the  great  and  worthy  persons  (whereof 
the   memory   remaineth,   either   ancient   or   recent) 

vou  I— T  ^^^ 


LORD    BACON 

there  is  not  one  that  hath  been  transported  to  the 
mad  degree  of  love,  which  shows  that  great  spirits 
and  great  business  do  keep  out  this  weak  passion. 
You   must   except,   nevertheless,    Marcus    Antonius, 
the  half  partner  of  the  empire  of  Rome,  and  Appius 
Claudius,  the  decemvir  and  law-giver;    whereof  the 
former  was  indeed  a  voluptuous  man,  and  inordi- 
nate;   but  the  latter  was  an  austere  and  wise  man; 
and  therefore  it  seems  (though  rarely)  that  love  can 
find  entrance,  not  only  into  an  open  heart,  but  also 
into  a  heart  well  fortified,  if  watch  be  not  well  kept. , 
It  is   a  poor  saying  of  Epicurus,  "  Satis  magnum 
alter  alteri  theatrum  sumus";    as  if  man,  made  for 
the  contemplation  of  heaven,  and  all  noble  objects, 
should  do  nothing  but  kneel  before  a  little  idol,  and  ' 
make  himself  a  subject,  though  not  of  the  moutk 
(as  beasts  are),  yet  of  the  eye,  which  was  given  him 
for  higher  purposes.     It  is  a  strange  thing  to  note 
the  excess  of  this  passion,   and  how  it  braves  the 
nature  and  value  of  things  by  this,  that  the  speak- 
ing in  a  perpetual  hyperbole  is  comely  in  nothing 
but  love;    neither  is  it  merely  in  the  phrase;    for 
whereas    it   hath   been   well    said,    "  That    the    arch 
flatterer,  with  whom  all  the  pretty  flatterers  have 
intelligence,  is  a  man's  self  "  ;   certainly  the  lover  is 
more;    for  there  was  never  a  proud  man  thought  so 
absurdly  well  of  himself  as  the  lover  doth  of  the 
person  loved;   and  therefore  it  was  well  said,  "That  | 
it  is  impossible  to  love  and  to  be  wise."     Neither  i 
doth  this  weakness  appear  to  others  only,  and  not 
to  the  party  loved,  but  to  the  loved  most  of  all,  ex-  j 
cept   the  love  be   reciprocal;    for  it  is  a  true  rul*;,  j 
that  love  is  ever  rewarded,  either  with  the  reciprocal  jj 
or  with  an  inward  or  secret  contempt ;   by  how  much  !i 
more    the   men    ought   to    beware    of   this    passion, 
which  loseth  not  only  other  things,  but  itself.     As 
for  the  other  losses,  the  poet's  relation  doth  well 
fii^re  them:   "That  he  that  preferred  Helena  quit- 

194 


OF    DEATH 

ted  the  gifts  of  Juno  and  Pallas";  for  whosoever 
esteemeth  too  much  of  amorous  affection  quitteth 
both  riches  and  wisdom.  This  passion  hath  its 
floods  in  the  very  times  of  weakness,  which  are  great 
prosperity  and  great  adversity,  though  this  latter 
hath  been  less  observed;  both  which  times  kindle 
love,  and  make  it  more  fervent,  and  therefore  show 
it  to  be  the  child  of  folly.  They  do  best  who,  if  they 
cannot  but  admit  love,  yet  make  it  keep  quarter, 
iand  sever  it  wholly  from  their  serious  affairs  and 
actions  of  life;  for  if  it  check  once  with  business, 
fit  troubleth  men's  fortunes,  and  maketh  men  that 
I  they  can  no  ways  be  true  to  their  own  ends.  I 
•know  not  how,  but  martial  men  are  given  to  love; 
'I  think  it  is  but  as  they  are  given  to  wine;  for  perils 
'commonly  ask  to  be  paid  in  pleasures. 

There  is  in  man's  nature  a  secret  inclination  and 
motion  towards  love  of  others,  which,  if  it  be  not 
spent  upon  some  one  or  a  few,  doth  naturally 
spread  itself  towards  many,  and  maketh  men  become 
humane  and  charitable,  as  it  is  seen  sometimes  in 
friars.  Xuptial  love  maketh  mankind;  friendly 
love  perfecteth  it;  but  wanton  love  corrupteth  and 
«mbasseth  it. 

OF    DEATH 

MEN  fear  death  as  children  fear  to  go  in  the 
dark;  and  as  that  natural  fear  in  children 
is  increased  with  tales,  so  is  the  other.  Certainly, 
the  contemplation  of  death,  as  the  wages  of  sin,  and 
the  passage  to  another  world,  is  holy  and  religious; 
but  the  fear  of  it,  as  a  tribute  due  unto  nature,  is 
weak.  Yet  in  religious  meditations  there  is  some- 
times mixture  of  vanity  and  of  superstition.  And 
by  him  that  spake  only  as  a  philosopher  and  natural 
man,  it  was  well  said,  "  The  surroundings  of  death 
terrify  more  than  death  itself."     It  is  worthy  the 

195 


LORD    BACON 

observing  that  there  is  no  passion  of  the  mind  of 
man  so  weak  but  it  mates  and  masters  the  fear  of 
death;  and  therefore  death  is  no  such  terrible  en- 
emy, when  a  man  hath  so  many  attendants  about 
him  that  can  win  the  combat  of  him.  Revenge  tri- 
umphs over  death;  love  slights  it;  honor  aspireth 
to  it;  grief  flieth  to  it;  fear  preoccupieth  it — naj, 
we  read,  after  Otho  the  emperor  had  slain  himself, 
pity  (which  is  the  tenderest  of  affections)  provoked 
many  to  die  out  of  mere  compassion  to  their  sov- 
ereign, and  as  the  truest  sort  of  followers.  It  is 
as  natural  to  die  as  to  be  born;  and  to  a  little 
infant,  perhaps,  the  one  is  as  painful  as  the  other. 
He  that  dies  in  an  earnest  pursuit  is  like  one  that 
is  wounded  in  hot  blood,  who,  for  the  time,  scarce 
feels  the  hurt;  and  therefore  a  mind  fixed  and  bent 
upon  somewhat  that  is  good  doth  avert  the  dolors 
of  death.  But,  above  all,  believe  it,  the  sweetest 
canticle  is  Nunc  dimittis,  when  a  man  hath  obtained 
worthy  ends  and  expectations.  Death  hath  this  also, 
that  it  openeth  the  gate  to  good  fame  and  extin- 
guisheth  envy.  "  The  same  person  shall  be  beloved 
when  dead." 


OF    MARRIAGE    AND    SINGLE    LIFE     i 

HE  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath  given  host-  j 
ages  to  fortune;    for  they  are  impediments  to  i 
great  enterprises,  either  of  virtue  or  mischief.    Cer-  j 
tainly  the  best  works,  and  of  greatest  merit  for  the  ( 
public,  have  proceeded  from  the  unmarried  or  child-  jl 
less  men,  which  both  in  affection  and  means  have 
married  and  endowed  the  public.    Yet  it  were  great 
reason  that   those  that   have   children   should   have 
greatest    care    of    future    times,    unto    which    they 
know  they  must  transmit  their  dearest  pledges.   Un- 
married men  are   best   friends,  best  masters,  best 

196 


OF    MARRIAGE    AND    SINGLE    LIFE 

servants;  but  not  always  best  subjects;  for  thej 
are  light  to  run  away — and  almost  all  fugitives  are 
of  that  condition.  A  single  life  doth  well  with 
churchmen,  for  charity  will  hardly  water  the  ground 
where  it  must  first  fill  a  pool.  It  is  indifferent  for 
judges  and  magistrates;  for  if  they  be  facile  and 
corrupt,  you  shall  have  a  servant  five  times  worse 
than  a  wife.  For  soldiers,  I  find  generals  com- 
monly, in  their  hortatives,  put  men  in  mind  of  their 
wives  and  their  children,  and  I  think  the  despising 
of  marriage  amongst  the  Turks  maketh  the  vulgar 
soldier  more  base.  Certainly,  wife  and  children  are 
a  kind  of  discipline  of  humanity;  and  single  men, 
though  they  be  many  times  more  charitable,  because 
their  means  are  less  exhaust,  yet,  on  the  other  side, 
they  are  more  cruel  and  hard-hearted  (good  to 
make  severe  inquisitors),  because  their  tenderness 
is  not  so  oft  called  upon.  Wives  are  young  men's 
mistresses;  companions  for  middle  age,  and  old 
mens'  nurses;  so  that  a  man  may  have  a  quarrel  to 
marry  when  he  will.  But  yet  he  was  reputed  one 
of  the  wise  men  that  made  answer  to  the  question 
when  a  man  should  marry:  "  A  young  man,  not  yet; 
an  elder  man,  not  at  all." 


'^'^^'i^^f^:^^^^ 


197 


JOANNA   BAILLIE 

JoAXNA  Baillie,  a  Scottish  poetess,  born  in  Both« 
well,  Lanarkshire,  1762;  died  in  England  in  1851c 
She  was  encouraged  in  her  literary  aspirations  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  and  "  The  Family  Legend,"  from  her 
**  Plays  on  the  Passions,"  was  presented  at  Edin- 
burgh under  his  auspices.  She  is  known  to  our  day 
liiirough  a  number  of  short  poems. 


WOO'D   AND    MARRIED   AND   A* 

THE  bride  she  is  winsome  and  bonny. 
Her  hair  it  is  snooded  sae  sleek. 
And  faithfu'  and  kind  is  her  Johnny, 
Yet  fast  fa'  the  tears  on  her  cheek. 
New  pearlins  are  cause  of  her  sorrow. 

New  pearlins  and  plenishing,  too: 
The  bride  that  has  a'  to  borrow 
Has  e'en  right  mickle  ado, 
Woo'd  and  married  and  a*  I 
Woo'd  and  married  and  a' I 
Isna  she  very  weel  aff 
To  be  woo'd  and  married  at  a'? 

Her  mither  then  hastily  spak": 

*•  The  lassie  is  glaikit  wi'  pride ; 
in  my  pouch  I  had  never  a  plack 

On  the  day  when  I  was  a  bride. 
E*en  tak'  to  your  wheel,  and  be  clever. 

And  draw  out  your  thread  in  the  sun; 
The  gear  that  is  gifted,  it  never 

Will  last  like  the  gear  that  is  won, 

198 


woo  D    AND    MARRIED    AND    A 

Woo'd  and  married  and  a' ! 
Wi'  havins  and  tocher  sae  sma'! 
I  think  ye  are  very  weel  aif 

To  be  woo'd  and  married  at  a' ! " 


Toot,  toot !  "  quo'  her  gray-headed  f  aither, 

"  She's  less  o'  a  bride  than  a  bairn ; 
She's  ta'en  like  a  cout  frae  the  heather, 

Wi'  sense  and  discretion  to  learn. 
Half  husband,  I  trow,  and  half  daddy, 

As  numor  inconstantly  leans, 
The  chiel  maun  be  patient  and  steady. 
That  yokes  wi'  a  mate  in  her  teens. 
A  kerchief  sae  douce  and  sae  neat, 
O'er  her  locks  that  the  wind  used  to  blawi 
I'm  baith  like  to  laugh  and  to  greet. 
When  I  think  o'  her  married  at  a' !  " 


Then  out  spak'  the  wily  bridegroom, 

Weel  waled  were  his  wordies,  I  ween: — 
I'm  rich,  though  my  coffer  be  toom, 

Wi'  the  blinks  o'  your  bonny  blue  een. 
I'm  prouder  o'  thee  by  my  side. 

Though  thy  ruffles  or  ribbons  be  few, 
Than  if  Kate  o'  the  Croft  were  my  bride, 
Wi'  purfles  and  pearlms  enow. 
Dear  and  dearest  of  ony ! 
Ye're  woo'd  and  buikit  and  a' ! 
And  do  ye  think  scorn  o'  your  Johnny, 
And  grieve  to  be  married  at  a'  ?  " 


She  turn'd  and  she  blush'd  and  she  smil'd. 
And  she  looket  sae  bashfully  down; 

The  pride  o'  her  heart  was  beguil'd. 

And  she  played  wi'  the  sleeves  o'  her  gown; 

199 


JOANNA    BAILLIE 

She  twirled  the  tag  o'  her  lace, 

And  she  nippet  her  bodice  sae  blue. 
Syne  blinket  sae  sweet  in  his  face. 
And  afF  like  a  maukin  she  flew. 
Woo'd  and  married  and  a'  ! 
Wi'  Johnny  to  roose  her  and  a'  ! 
She  thinks  hersel'  very  weel  aff, 
To  be  woo'd  and  married  and  a'  ! 


IT    WAS    ON    A    MORN 

IT  was  on  a  morn,  when  we  were  thrang. 
The  kirn  it  crooned,  the  cheese  was  making. 
And  bannocks  on  the  girdle  baking. 
When  ane  at  the  door  chappt  ioud  and  lang. 

Yet  the  auld  gudewife  and  her  mays  sae  tight. 
Of  a'  this  bauld  din  took  sma'  notice,  I  ween; 

For  a  chap  at  the  door  in  braid  daylight 
Is  no  like  a  chap  that's  heard  at  e'en. 

But  the  docksy  auld  laird  of  the  Warlock  glen, 
Wha  waited  without,  half  blate,  half  cheery. 
And  langed  for  a  sight  o'  his  winsome  deary. 

Raised  up  the  latch,  and  came  crousely  ben. 

His  coat  it  was  new  and  his  o'erlay  was  white. 
His  mittens  and  hose  were  cozie  and  bien; 

But  a  wooer  that  comes  in  braid  daylight 
Is  no  like  a  wooer  that  comes  at  e'en. 

He  greeted  the  carline  and  lasses  sae  braw. 
And  his  bare  lyart  pow  sae  smoothly  he  straikii 
And  he  looket  about,  like  a  body  half  glaikit. 

On  bonny  sweet  Nanny,  the  youngest  o'  a', 

200 


IT    WAS    ON    A    MORN 

"  Ha,  laird ! "  quo'  the  carline,  "  and  look  je  that 
way  ? 

Fye,  let  na'  sic  fancies  bewilder  you  clean: 
An  elderlin  man,  in  the  noon  o'  the  day. 

Should  be  wiser  than  youngsters  that  come  at  e'en." 

*'  Na,  na,"  quo'  the  pawky  auld  wife,  "  I  trow, 
You'll  no'  fash  your  head  wi'  a  jouthfu'  gilly. 
As  wild  and  as  skeig  as  a  muirland  filly; 

Black  Madge  is  far  better  and  fitter  for  you." 

He  hem'd  and  he  haw'd,  and  he  drew  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  squeezed  the  blue  bannet  his  twa  hands 
between. 

For  a  wooer  that  comes  when  the  sun 's  i'  the  south 
Is  mair  landward  than  wooers  that  come  at  e'en. 

''Black  Madge   is    sae   carefu' "—"  What's    that   to 
me?" 
"  She's  sober  and  eydent,  has  sense  in  her  noddle: 
She's  douce  and  respeckit " — "  I  care  na'  a  bodle: 

Love  winna  be  guided,  and  fancy  's  free." 

Madge  tossed  back  her  head  wi'  a  saucy  slight, 
And  Nanny,  loud  laughing,  ran  out  to  the  green; 

For  a  wooer  that  comes  when  the  sun  shines  bright 
Is  no  like  a  wooer  that  comes  at  e'en. 

Then  away  flung  the  laird,  and  loud  mutter'd  he, 
"A'  the  daughters  of  Eve,  between  Orkney  and 

Tweed,  O ! 
Black  or  fair,  young  or  auld,  dame  or  damsel  or 
widow. 
May  gang  in  their  pride  to  the  de'il  for  me!" 

But  the  auld  gudewife  and  her  mays  sae  tight 
Cared  little  for  a'  his  stour  banning,  I  ween; 

For  a  wooer  that  comes  in  braid  daylight 
Is  no  like  a  wooer  that  comes  at  e'en. 

^1 


HONORS  DE   BALZAC 

HoNORE  DE  Balzac,  the  greatest  of  French  novel* 
ists,  born  at  Tours  in  1799;  died  in  Paris  in 
1850.  He  began  the  writing  of  short  stories  when 
still  in  his  teens,  and  at  twenty-five  had  published 
about  thirty.  None  were  popular.  In  1829  he  pub- 
lished "  Les  Derniers  Chouans,"  which  established  his 
reputation. 


THE   GREATNESS  AND  THE  DECLINE  \ 
OF   CESAR   BIROTTEAU  \ 

(Ctopyright  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Mies  Wormeley,  translator) 

WHEN    Cesar   came   to   Paris,   he   could   read,  i 
write,    and    cipher;    his    education    stopped  , 
there;  his  laborious  life  had  hindered  him  from  ac- 
quiring any  ideas  and  knowledge  foreign  to  the  busi- 
ness of  perfumery.    Constantly  mingling  with  people 
who  were  indifferent  to  science  and  letters,  whose  ' 
education  did  not  go  beyond  specialties;  having  no  i 
time  to  devote  to  elevating  studies,  the  perfumer  be-  ! 
came  a  practical  man.    He  was  forced  to  adopt  the  ' 
language,  errors,  opinions  of  the  Parisian  bourgeois 
—the  class  who  admire  Moliere,  Voltaire  and  Rous- 
seau  on    faith,   who   purchase   their   works   without 
reading  them;  who  maintain  that  it  is  proper  to  say   I 
ormoire,  because  ladies  lock  up  in  those  articles  of  ' 
furniture  their  or   (gold)    and  their  dresses  which   j 
formerly  were  almost  always  made  of  moire,  and  ! 
that  armoire  is  a  corruption.     Potier,  Talma,  Mad-  i 
emoiselle  Mars,  were,  the  bourgeois  believes,  million-  | 
aires  ten  times  over,  and  did  not  live  like  other  hu- 


GREATNESS    AND    DECLINE    OF    CESAR    BIROTTEAIT 

man  beings;  the  great  tragedian  ate  man-flesh;  Mad- 
emoiselle Mars  sometimes  made  a  fricassee  of  pearls, 
in  imitation  of  a  celebrated  Egyptian  actress.  The 
Emperor  had  leather  pockets  in  his  waistcoats  to 
enable  him  to  take  snuff  by  the  handful,  and  rode 
at  full  gallop  up  the  stairs  of  the  orangery  at  Ver- 
sailles. Authors  and  artists  died  in  the  hospital  in 
consequence  of  their  oddities;  they  were,  besides,  all 
atheists,  whom  it  behooved  people  not  to  admit  into 
their  houses.  Joseph  Lebas  cited,  with  a  shudder, 
the  history  of  his  sister-in-law  Augustine's  marriage 
with  the  painter  Sommervieux.  Astronomers  lived 
on  spiders.  These  luminous  specimens  of  their 
knowledge  of  the  French  language,  of  dramatic  art, 
politics,  literature,  and  science,  indicate  the  scope 
of  their  intellects.  A  poet,  who  passes  along  the  rue 
des  Lombards,  and  inhales  the  prevailing  perfumes, 
may  dream  of  Asia  there.  Breathing  the  odor  of 
vetj-ver  in  a  green-house,  he  may  behold  the  almees 
of  the  East.  The  splendors  of  cochineal  remind  him 
of  the  poems,  the  religion,  the  castes  of  the  Brah- 
mins. Coming  in  contact  with  inwrought  ivory,  he 
mounts,  in  imagination,  upon  the  back  of  an  ele- 
phant, and  there,  in  a  muslin  pavilion,  makes  love 
like  the  king  of  Lahore.  But  the  shop-keeper  is 
ignorant  whence  come  the  articles  in  which  he  deals, 
and  where  they  grow.  Birotteau  knew  nothing  what- 
ever of  natural  history  or  chemistry.  In  regarding 
Vauquelin  as  a  great  man,  he  considered  him  as  an 
exception;  he  resembled  the  retired  grocer  who  thus 
shrewdly  summed  up  a  discussion  on  the  way  in 
which  tea  is  brought  to  France:  "Tea  comes  only 
in  two  ways,  by  caravan  or  by  Havre."  According 
to  Birotteau.  aloes  and  opium  were  to  be  found  only 
in  the  rue  des  I^mbards.  The  pretended  rose-water 
of  Constantinople  was  made,  like  cologne-water, 
at  Paris.  These  names  of  places  were  shams,  in- 
vented to  please  the  French,  who  cannot  endure  the 

203 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC 

productions  of  their  own  country.  A  French  mer- 
chant was  bound  to  call  his  discovery  English,  in 
order  to  make  it  popular,  as  in  England  a  druggist 
attributes  his  to  France.  Nevertheless,  Cesar  could 
not  be  quite  a  dunce  and  a  blockhead;  integrity 
and  benevolence  gave  respectability  to  the  acts  of 
his  life,  for  a  good  deed  obliterates  any  amount  of 
ignorance.  His  constant  success  gave  him  assurance. 
At  Paris,  assurance  is  accepted  for  the  power  of 
which  it  is  the  sign. 

Having  thoroughly  learned  the  character  of  Cesar 
during  the  first  three  years  of  their  married  life,  his 
wife  was  in  a  constant  fever  of  anxiety;  she  repre- 
sented, in  this  union,  the  part  of  sagacity  and  fore- 
sight, doubt,  hesitation  and  fear;  as  Cesar  repre- 
sented that  of  audacity,  ambition,  action,  and  the 
extraordinary  success  of  fatality.  In  spite  of  appear- 
ances, the  tradesman  was  timid,  whilst  his  wife 
possessed  real"  patience  and  courage.  Thus,  a  nar- 
row-minded and  ordinary  man,  without  education, 
without  ideas,  without  knowledge,  without  decided 
character,  who,  on  general  principles,  could  not  have 
succeeded  on  the  most  uncertain  market  in  the  world, 
came,  by  his  discreet  conduct,  by  his  sentiment  of 
justice,  by  his  truly  Christian  goodness  of  heart,  by 
his  love  for  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  possessed, 
to  be  regarded  as  a  remarkable  man,  as  one  courage- 
ous and  full  of  resolution.  The  public  saw  the  re- 
sults only.  His  associates,  with  the  exception  of 
Pillerault  and  Judge  Popinot,  saw  Cesar  but  super- 
ficially, and  could  not  form  an  opinion  of  him.  Be- 
sides, the  twenty  or  thirty  friends  who  associated 
with  each  other  were  constantly  uttering  the  same 
stupidities,  repeating  the  same  common-places,  and 
all  regarded  each  other  as  superior  beings  in  their 
own  walks  of  life.  The  women  vied  with  each  other 
in  dinners  and  dress;  each  one  of  them  had  said  all 
she  knew  when  she  had  said  a  word  of  contempt 

204 


GREATNESS    AND    DECLINE    OF    CESAR    BIROTTEAU  ' 

I 

for  her  husband,  Madame  Birotteau  alone  had  the 
good  sense  to  treat  hers  with  honor  and  respect  in  I 

public;  she  saw  in  him  a  man  who  in  spite  of  his  I 

secret  incapacity,  had  acquired  their  fortune,  and  in  I 

whose  consideration  she  participated.  She  some- 
times asked  herself,  however,  what  the  world  could 
be,  if  all  men  of  pretended  superiority  resembled 
her  husband.     Such  conduct  contributed  not  a  little  i 

to  sustain  the  respectful  esteem  awarded  to  a  trades-^ 
man,  in  a  country  where  women  are  so  prone  to  bring  | 

their  husbands  into  disrespect  and  to  complain  of 
them  in  public. 

Cesar  was  now  forty  years  old.     The  labors  which  ' 

he  performed  in  his  laboratory  had  given  him  a  few 
premature  wrinkles,  and  had  sli<rhtly  silvered  his 
long  bushy  hair,  around  which  the  pressure  of  his 
hat  made  a  glistening  circular  impression.  His 
hea\y  eyebrows  might  have  alarmed  the  beholder, 
had  not  his  blue  eyes,  with  their  clear  and  honest 
expression,  been  in  perfect  harmony  with  his  open 
and  manly  forehead.  His  nose,  broken  at  its  base, 
and  %'ery  large  at  the  end,  gave  him  the  surprised  air 
of  the  quidnuncs  of  Paris.  His  lips  were  full,  and 
his  fat  chin  hung  perpendicularly  down.  His  square 
and  highly  colored  face  indicated,  by  the  disposition  , 

of  the  wrinkles  and  the  general  style  of  his  physi- 
ognomy, the  ingenuous  cunning  of  the  peasant.     The  ■ 
strength  of  his  body,  the  heaviness  of  his  limbs,  the 
squareness  of  his  back,  and  the  width  of  his  feet —           ' 
everything  about  him  in  short — denoted  the  villager 
transported   to   Paris.     His  large  and   hairy  hands, 
his  fat,  wrinkled  fingers,  his  big  square  nails,  would 
have  borne  witness  to  his  origin,  even  if  there  had 
been  no  traces  of  it   in  his   person.     He  had  con- 
stantly  upon   his   lips    that    benevolent   smile   which 
shop-keepers   assume  upon   the   entrance  of  a   cus-           ! 
tomer;  and  yet  this  commercial  smile  was  the  faith-            I 
ful  image  of  his  internal  content,  and   represented            ! 

205  * 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC 

the  true  state  of  his  tranquil  soul.  His  habitual  dis- 
trust never  went  beyond  his  business;  his  caution  left 
him  when  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  Exchange 
or  when  he  closed  his  ledger.  Suspicion  was  to  him 
what  his  printed  bill-heads  were,  a  necessary  and 
component  part  cf  all  bargain  and  sale.  His  face  pre- 
sented a  sort  of  comic  assurance,  of  fatuity  mingled 
with  good-fellowship,  which  rendered  him  an  original 
type,  as  it  took  away  from  the  resemblance,  other- 
wise perfect,  with  the  flat  physiognomy  of  the 
Parisian  bourgeois.  Without  this  air  of  guileless 
admiration  and  faith  in  himself,  he  would  have  in- 
spired too  much  respect;  he  thus  maintained  his  re- 
lationship with  mankind,  by  contributing  his  share 
of  the  ridiculous. 

When  talking,  he  habitually  held  his  hands  behind 
his  back.  When  he  thought  he  had  said  something 
smart  or  gallant,  he  raised  himself  twice  upon  his 
toes,  and  fell  back  again  heavily,  as  if  to  emphasize 
his  remark.  In  the  heat  of  a  discussion,  he  would 
sometimes  turn  briskly  round,  walk  a  few  steps  as 
if  he  were  going  to  seek  for  further  arguments,  and 
return  sharply  upon  his  antagonist.  He  never  in- 
terrupted a  speaker,  and  often  fell  a  victim  to  this 
exact  observance  of  propriety,  for  the  other  cut  in 
whenever  they  could,  and  the  poor  man  would  be 
obliged  to  depart  without  getting  in  a  word  edgewise. 
His  great  experience  in  commercial  matters  had 
given  him  certain  peculiar  ways  which  many  per- 
sons called  manias.  When  a  note  was  not  taken  up, 
he  sent  it  to  the  proper  officer,  and  thought  no  more 
of  it  except  to  receive  the  principal,  interest  and  ex- 
penses; the  officer  had  instructions  to  press  the  mat- 
ter until  the  tradesman  was  bankrupt,  and  then  to 
stop  all  proceedings:  Cesar  put  the  notes  in  his 
pockets  and  never  went  to  any  meetings  of  the  credi- 
tors. This  system  and  his  implacable  detestation  of 
bankrupts,  he  had  derived  from  Ragon,  who,  in  the 

206 


GREATNESS    AXD    DECLINE    OF    CESAR    BIROTTEAIT 

course  of  his  mercantile  experience,  had  discovered 
that  so  much  time  was  lost  in  litigation,  that  the 
meager  and  uncertain  dividend  produced  by  ar- 
rangements and  compromises  was  more  than  com- 
pensated by  the  time  spent  in  going  and  coming,  and 
running  after  the  excuses  the  dishonest  are  ever  so 
ready  to  make. 

"  If  the  bankrupt  is  an  honest  man,"  said  Ragon, 
"and  recovers  himself,  he  will  pay  you.  If  he  still 
continues  penniless,  and  is  simply  unfortunate,  why 
torment  him?  And  if  he  is  a  rascal,  you'll  never  get 
anything  any  way.  Your  well-known  severity  causes 
you  to  be  regarded  as  intractable,  and  as  no  com- 
promise with  you  is  possible,  as  long  as  a  man  can 
pay  any  one,  it's  you  that  he  paj^s." 

Cesar  arrived  at  an  appointment  the  moment 
agreed  upon,  and  ten  minutes  afterward  he  left  with 
an  inflexibility  that  nothing  could  conquer;  so  that 
his  own  punctuality  rendered  those  who  had  business 
with  him  punctual  themselves. 

The  costume  which  he  had  adopted  was  in  har- 
mony with  his  manners  and  his  physiognomy.  No 
power  on  earth  could  have  induced  him  to  give  up 
his  white  muslin  cravats,  the  ends  of  which,  em- 
broidered by  his  wife  or  his  daughter,  hung  dow^ 
under  his  neck.  His  single-breasted  white  Marseilles 
waistcoat  came  very  low  down  upon  his  somewhat 
prominent  stomach;  for  Cesar  was  slightly  corpu- 
lent. He  wore  blue  pantaloons,  black  silk  stockings, 
and  shoes,  the  strings  of  which  were  constantly  com- 
ing untied.  His  olive-green  frock-coat,  always  too 
'arge  for  him,  and  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  gave  him 
the  air  of  a  quaker.  When  he  dressed  himself  for 
Sunday  evening,  he  put  on  a  pair  of  silk  small- 
clothes, shoes  with  gilt  buckles,  and  his  inevitable 
single-breasted  waistcoat,  slightly  open  at  the  top 
to  show  his  plaited  shirt-frill.  His  chestnut-colored 
floth  coat  was  long  in  the  waist  and  wide  in  the 

207 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC 

skirts.  He  continued,  up  to  1819,  to  wear  two  watch- 
ohains,  hanging  parallel  to  each  other,  but  he  only 
put  on  the  second  when  he  considered  himself 
dressed. 

Such  was  Cesar  Birotteau,  a  worthy  creature  upon 
whom  the  mysterious  deities  who  attend  upon  the 
birth  of  men  had  refused  to  confer  the  power  of 
taking  general  views  either  of  politics  or  life,  or  that 
of  raising  himself  above  the  social  level  of  the  mid- 
dling classes.  He  followed  in  everything  the  wind- 
ing ways  of  routine;  every  opinion  which  he  held 
had  been  communicated  to  him  by  others,  and  he 
applied  them  without  examination.  Blind  but  good, 
not  intellectual  but  profoundly  religious,  he  was  a 
man  perfectly  pure  in  heart.  In  his  heart  burned 
one  first  and  only  love,  the  light  and  strength  of  his 
life;  for  his  endeavors  to  rise,  and  the  little  infor- 
mation he  had  acquired,  sprang  from  his  affection 
for  his  wife  and  daughter. 

As  for  Madame  Cesar,  thirty-seven  years  old  at 
this  time,  she  resembled  the  Venus  of  Milo  so  closely 
that  all  who  knew  her  saw  her  very  portrait  in  that 
admirable  statue  when  the  Due  de  Riviere  sent  it  to 
Paris.  In  a  few  months,  however,  sorrow  and  trou- 
ble so  diffused  their  yellow  tints  over  her  dazzlingly 
white  skin,  so  cruelly  undermined  and  disclosed  the 
bluish  circle  within  which  played  her  fine  sparkling 
eyes,  that  she  had  the  appearance  of  an  old  ma- 
donna; for  she  still  preserved,  in  the  midst  of  her 
decay,  a  pleasing  ingenuousness  of  manner,  a  pure 
though  melancholy  look,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to 
consider  her  still  a  handsome  woman,  and  one  singu- 
larly reserved  and  dignified  in  her  demeanor.  At 
the  ball  contemplated  by  C^sar,  she  was  destined  to 
enjoy  one  final  and  public  triumph  of  beauty. 

Every  life  has  its  apogee — a  period  during  which 
the  causes  which  operate  are  in  exact  proportion  with 
the  results  they  produce.     This  high  noon  of  exist- 

208 


GREATNESS    AND    DECLINE    OF    CESAR    BIROTTEAU 

ence,  in  which  every  moving  force  is  in  equilibrium 
and  is  manifested  in  its  highest  state,  is  common, 
not  only  to  organized  beings,  but  to  cities,  nations, 
ideas,  institutions,  trades,  enterprises;  all  of  which, 
like  noble  families  and  dynasties,  spring  up,  come 
to  perfection,  and  fall.  Whence  comes  the  severe 
impartiality  with  which  this  theme  of  increase  and 
decay  is  applied  to  all  earthly  organizations?  For 
death  itself,  in  times  of  plague  or  epidemic,  now  ad- 
vances, now  slackens  its  course,  now  revives  and 
now  sleeps.  Our  globe  itself  is  perhaps  a  mere 
rocket,  a  little  more  durable  than  the  rest.  History, 
in  perpetually  repeating  the  causes  of  the  greatness 
and  decline  of  everything  that  has  been  seen  on 
earth,  ought,  one  would  think,  to  warn  mankind  of 
the  proper  time  to  arrest  the  play  of  their  faculties; 
but  neither  conquerors  nor  actors,  neither  women 
nor  authors,  ever  listen  to  its  salutary  voice. 

Cesar  Birotteau,  who  should  have  regarded  him- 
self as  having  arrived  at  the  apogee  of  his  fortunes, 
chose  to  consider  this  halting-time  as  a  new  point 
of  departure.  He  did  not  know — and  neither  nations 
nor  kings  have  sought  to  write  them  in  ineflFaceable 
characters — the. causes  of  the  downfalls  with  which 
history  is  rife,  and  of  which  both  mercantile  and 
sovereign  houses  have  furnished  such  terrible  exam- 
ples. Why  should  not  new  pyramids  be  erected,  to 
keep  continually  before  the  world  this  principle,  ap- 
plicable not  only  to  the  politics  of  nations  but  to 
the  economy  of  private  individuals,  that  whenever 
the  efect  produced  has  ceased  to  be  in  direct  con- 
nection and  in  equal  proportion  icith  its  cause,  dis- 
organization has  begun?  Such  movements,  however, 
are  everywhere  to  be  seen,  in  the  traditions  and 
stories  which  speak  to  us  of  the  past,  which  embody 
the  caprices  of  ungovernable  destiny,  whose  hand 
effaces  our  dreams  and  shows  us  that  the  greatest 
events  are  summed  up  in  an  idea.    Troy  and  Napo' 

209 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC 

leon  are  naught  but  poems.  May  this  history  be  the 
poem  of  the  obscure  domestic  vicissitudes  in  behalf 
of  which  no  voice  has  been  raised,  all  destitute,  as 
they  appear,  of  greatness;  while,  on  the  contrary, 
and  for  the  same  reason,  they  are  immense.  We  are 
not  now  treating  of  individual  woes,  but  of  the  suf- 
ferings of  a  people. 


The  ball,  like  a  blazing  rocket,  died  out  and  came 
to  an  end  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  At  that 
time,  but  forty  carriages  remained  of  the  hundred 
and  odd  which  had  filled  the  rue  St.  Honore.  The 
company  were  dancing  a  country  dance — dethroned 
in  after  years  by  the  German  cotillion  and  the  Eng- 
lish galop.  Du  Tillet,  Roguin,  Cardot,  junior,  the 
Count  de  Grandville,  and  Jules  Desmarets  were  at 
the  gaming  table.  Du  Tillet  had  won  three  thousand 
francs.  The  first  rays  of  dawn  appeared  and  paled 
the  light  of  the  candles:  the  players  rose  and  wit- 
nessed the  closing  dance.  In  the  houses  of  the  bour- 
geois, the  transports  cf  the  breaking  up  rarely  pass 
without  the  enactment  of  a  few  extravagances.  The 
important  characters  are  gone:  the .  intoxication  of 
the  motion,  the  communicative  warmth  of  the  at- 
mosphere, the  spirit  lurking  in  the  most  apparently 
innocent  beverages,  have  by  this  time  softened  even 
the  ok!  ladies'  stiff  est  joints,  and  they  complaisantly 
take  part  in  the  dance,  and  yield  to  the  folly  of  the 
moment;  the  men  perspire,  their  hair  comes  out  of 
curl  and  hangs  down  limp  over  their  faces,  giving 
them  a  grotesque  and  laughter-provoking  aspect; 
the  young  women  become  giddy,  and  the  wreaths 
upon  their  heads  begin  to  rain  flowers  upon  the  floor. 
The  Momus  of  the  bourgeois  appears,  and  mirth 
follows  in  his  train !  A  burst  of  laughter  welcomes 
him,  and  everybody  gives  himself  up  to  tom-foolery, 
knowing  that  on  the  morrow  labor  will  reclaim  their 

mo 


GREATNESS    AND    DECLINE    OF    CESAR    BIROTTEAU 

service.  Matifat  danced  with  a  woman's  bonnet  on 
his  head;  Celestin  abandoned  himself  to  buffoonery. 
A  few  of  the  women  frantically  clapped  their  hands 
together  when  required  by  the  figure  of  this  inter- 
minable dance. 

"  What  a  good  time  they  are  having  ! "  said  Birot- 
teau,    delighted. 

"  I  only  hope  they  won't  break  anything,"  said  Con- 
stance to  her  uncle. 

"  Your  ball  is  the  most  magnificent  I  have  ever 
seen,  and  I  have  seen  a  great  many,"  said  du  Tillet 
to  his  former  master  on  bidding  him  good  night. 

In  that  sublime  composition — the  eight  symphonies 
of  Beethoven — there  is  a  fantasia  with  all  the  gran- 
deur of  an  epic  poem,  which  is  the  burden  of  the 
finale  to  the  symphony  in  C  minor.  When,  after  the 
dallying  preparations  of  the  sublime  magician  so 
admirably  interpreted  by  Habeneck,  the  leader  of 
the  orchestra,  a  wave  of  that  enthusiast's  hand  rolls 
up  the  rich  curtain  of  the  scene,  summoning  forth 
with  his  baton  the  dazzling  theme  in  which  all  the 
powers  of  music  have  been  concentrated,  poets,  whos^ 
hearts  then  beat  within  them,  will  comprehend  how 
Birotteau's  ball  produced,  in  his  simple  life,  the 
effect  produced  upon  them  by  this  teeming  air,  to 
which,  perhaps,  the  symphony  in  C  owes  its  suprem- 
acy over  its  brilliant  sisters.  A  radiant  fairy  darts 
forward  and  raises  her  wand.  The  listener  hears  the 
rustling  of  the  purple  curtain,  raised  by  angels' 
hands.  Gates  of  gold,  sculptured  like  the  portals 
of  the  Florentine  Baptistery,  revolve  on  their  dia- 
mond hinges.  The  eye  is  lost  in  splendid  views;  at 
one  glance  it  embraces  a  colonnade  of  marvelous 
palaces,  in  which  flit  beings  of  heavenly  birth.  The 
incense  of  glory  smokes,  the  altar  of  happiness 
flashes,  you  breathe  a  perfumed  air!  Creatures, 
whose  smile  is  divine,  clothed  in  white  tunics  edged 
with  blue,  pass  lightly  before  your  eyes,  disclosing 

211 


HONORS    DE    BALZAC 

faces  of  superhuman  beauty  and  forms  of  infinite 
grace.  Cupids  hover  around,  shedding  the  light  of  their 
torches  upon  the  scene.  You  feel  yourse]f  beloved: 
you  are  blessed  in  a  happiness  which  you  inhale  with- 
out comprehending  how,  bathed  in  the  waves  of  har- 
mony which  flows  in  living  streams,  and  runs  for 
all,  with  the  nectar  they  have  chosen.  The  sweet 
aspirations  of  your  heart  are  for  one  instant  real- 
ized. The  enchanter,  having  convoyed  you  through 
the  heavens,  plunges  you  back,  by  the  profound 
and  mysterious  transition  of  the  violoncellos,  into 
the  morass  of  cold  realities,  to  drag  you  forth  once 
more,  when  you  thirst  anew  for  his  divine  melodies, 
and  when  your  soul  cries  out.  Again!  The  psycho- 
logic analysis  of  the  culminating  point  of  this 
glorious  finale  will  answer  for  that  of  the  emotions 
showered  on  Cesar  and  Constance  by  this  wondrous 
festivity.  Collinet,  Birotteau's  chief  musician,  had 
performed  the  finale  of  their  commercial  symphony 
upon  his  squeaking  three-holed  fife. 

Weary,  but  blest,  the  three  Birotteaus  fell  asleep 
by  daylight,  to  the  dying  murmurs  of  this  ball, 
which,  in  buildings,  repairs,  furniture,  refreshments, 
and  dress,  cost,  though  Cesar  was  far  from  suspect- 
ing it,  hard  upon  sixty  thousand  francs.  Such  was 
the  issue  of  the  fatal  red  ribbon  fastened  by  a 
king  to  a  perfumer's  buttonhole.  Should  Cesar 
Birotteau  meet  with  misfortune,  this  absurd  expen- 
diture was  enough  to  bring  him  before  the  correc- 
tional police.  A  tradesman  who  goes  to  expenses 
considered  inordinate  in  his  position,  may  be  found 
guilty  of  simple  bankruptcy,  as  distinguished  from 
fraudulent  bankruptcy.  It  is  perhaps  worse  to  go 
before  a  petty  tribunal  charged  with  folly  and  in- 
discretion, than  to  appear  at  the  bar  of  the  court  of 
assizes  for  one  immense  imposture.  In  the  eyes  of 
certain  people,  it  is  better  to  be  criminal  than  weak. 


219 


EUGENIE    GRANDET 


EUGENIE    GRANDET 

(Copyright  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.      Miss  Wormeley,  Translator) 

IN  the  pure  and  monotonous  life  of  young  girls 
there  comes  a  delicious  hour  when  the  sun  sheds 
its  rays  into  their  soul,  when  the  flowers  express  their 
thoughts,  when  the  throbbings  of  the  heart  send  up- 
ward to  the  brain  their  fertilizing  warmth  and  melt 
all  thoughts  into  a  vague  desire — day  of  innocent 
melancholy  and  dulcet  joys!  When  babes  begin  to 
see,  they  smile;  when  a  young  girl  first  perceives  the 
sentiment  of  nature,  she  smiles  as  she  smiled  when 
an  infant.  If  light  is  the  first  love  of  life,  is  not 
love  a  light  to  the  heart?  The  moment  to  see  within 
the  veil  of  earthly  things  had  come  for  Eugenie. 

An  early  riser,  like  all  provincial  girls,  she  was 
up  betimes  and  said  her  prayers,  and  then  began  the 
business  of  dressing — a  business  which  henceforth 
was  to  have  a  meaning.  First  she  brushed  and 
smoothed  her  chestnut  hair  and  twisted  its  heavy 
masses  to  the  top  of  her  head  with  the  utmost 
care,  preventing  the  loose  tresses  from  straying, 
and  giving  to  her  head  a  symmetry  which  heightened 
the  timid  candor  of  her  face;  for  the  simplicity  of 
these  accessories  accorded  well  with  the  innocent  sin- 
cerity of  its  lines.  As  she  washed  her  hands  again 
and  again  in  the  cold  water  which  hardened  and  red- 
dened the  skm,  she  looked  at  her  handsome  round 
arms  and  asked  herself  what  her  cousin  did  to  make 
his  hands  so  softly  white,  his  nails  so  delicately 
curved.  She  put  on  new  stockings  and  her  prettiest 
shoes.  She  laced  her  corset  straight,  without  skip- 
ping a  single  eyelet.  And  then,  wishing  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  to  appear  to  advantage,  she  felt  the 
joy  of  having  a  new  gown,  well  made,  which  ren- 
dered her  attractive. 

As  she  finished  her  toilet  the  clock  of  the  parish 

213 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC  ; 

church  struck  the  hour:  to  her  astonishment,  it  was 
only  seven.    The  desire  of  having  plenty  of  time  for  ■ 
dressing  carefully  had  led  her  to  get  up  too  early.  ] 
Ignorant  of  the  art  of  retouching  every  curl  and  j 
studying   every  effect,   Eugenie  simply   crossed  her  ; 
arms,  sat  down  by  the  window,  and  looked  at  the 
court-yard,   the   narrow   garden,   and   the   high   ter- 
raced walls  that  overtopped  it:  a,  dismal,  hedged-in 
prospect,  yet  not  wholly  devoid  of  those  mysterious 
beauties    which    belong   to    solitary    or    uncultivated 
nature.    Near  the  kitchen  was  a  well  surrounded  by  ; 
a  curb,  with  a  pulley  fastened   to   a   bent   iron   rod 
clasped  by  a  vine  whose  leaves  were  withered,  red- 
dened, and  shriveled  by  the  season.    From  thence  the 
tortuous   shoots   straggled   to  the  wall,   clutched   it,  '■ 
and  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  house,  ending  near 
the  wood-pile,  where  the  logs  were  ranged  with  as 
much  precision  as  the  books  in  a  library.    The  pave-  j 
inent  of  the  court-yard  showed  the  black  stains  pro- 
duced in  time  by  lichens,  herbage,  and  the  absence  j 
of  all  movement  or  friction.    The  thick  walls  wore  a   : 
coating  of  green  moss  streaked  with  waving  brown 
lines,  and  the  eight  stone  steps  at  the  bottom  of  the 
court-yard  which  led  up  to  the  gate  of  the  garden  < 
were  disjoined  and  hidden  beneath  tall  plants,  like 
the  tomb  of  a  knight  buried  by  his  widow  in  the 
days  of  the  Crusades.    Above  a  foundation  of  moss- 
grown,  crumbling  stones  was  a  trellis  of  rotten  wood,  1 
half  fallen    from  decay;  over  them  clambered  and 
intertwined   at  will   a  mass   of  clustering  creepers. 
On  each    side    of    the    latticed    gate    stretched    the 
crooked    arms   of   two    stunted    apple-trees.     Three  I 
parallel  walks,   gravelled  and   separated   from   each  i 
other  by  square  beds,  where  the  earth  was  held  in  ; 
by  box-borders,  made  the  garden,  which  terminated,  ' 
beneath  a  terrace  of  the  old  walls,  in  a  group  of  : 
lindens.    At  the  farther  end  were  raspberry-bushes^  ( 
at  the  other,  near  the  house,  an  immense  walnut*  i 

2U  \ 


EUGENIE    GRANDET 

trooped  its  branches  almost  into  the  window  of  the- 
miser's  sanctum. 

A  clear  day  and  the  beautiful  autumnal  sun  com- 
mon to  the  banks  of  the  Lx)ire  were  beginning  to  melt 
the  hoar-frost  which  the  night  had  lain  on  these  pic- 
turesque objects,  on  the  walls,  and  on  the  plants 
which  swathed  the  garden  and  the  court-yard. 
Eugenie  found  a  novel  charm  in  the  aspect  of  things 
lately  so  insignificant  to  her.  A  thousand  confused 
thoughts  came  to  birth  in  her  mind  and  grew  there, 
as  the  sunbeams  grew  without  along  the  wall.  She 
felt  that  impulse  of  delight,  vague,  inexplicable, 
which  wraps  the  moral  being  as  a  cloud  wraps  the 
physical  body.  Her  thoughts  were  all  in  keeping 
with  the  details  of  this  strange  landscape,  and  the 
harmonies  of  her  heart  blended  with  the  harmonies 
of  nature.  When  the  sun  reached  an  angle  of  the 
wall  where  the  "  Venus-hair"  of  southern  climes 
drooped  its  thick  leaves,  lit  with  the  changing  colors 
of  a  pigeon's  breast,  celestial  rays  of  hope  illumined 
the  future  to  her  eyes,  and  thenceforth  she  loved 
^o  gaze  upon  that  piece  of  wall,  on  its  pale  flowers, 
its  blue  harebells,  its  wilting  herbage,  with  which  she 
mingled  memories  as  tender  as  those  of  childhood. 
The  noise  made  by  each  leaf  as  it  fell  from  its  twig 
in  the  void  of  that  echoing  court  gave  answer  to 
the  secret  questionings  of  the  young  girl,  who  could 
have  stayed  there  the  livelong  day  without  perceiving 
the  flight  of  time.  Then  came  tumultuous  heavings 
of  the  soul.  She  rose  often,  went  to  her  glass,  and 
looked  at  herself,  as  an  author  in  good  faith  looks 
at  his  work  to  criticize  it  and  blame  it  in  his  own 
mind. 

**  ^  am  not  beautiful  enough  for  him  !**  Such  was 
i'lugenie's  thought, — a  humble  thought,  fertile  in 
sufl'ering.  The  poor  girl  did  not  do  herself  justice; 
but  modesty,  or  rather  fear,  is  among  the  first  of 
Jove's  virtues:  Eugenie  belonged  to  the  type  of  chil- 

215 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC 

dren  with  sturdy  constitutions,  such  as  we  see  among 
the  lesser  bourgeoisie,  whose  beauties  always  seem  a 
little  vulgar;  and  yet,  though  she  resembled  the 
Venus  of  Milo,  the  lines  of  her  figure  were  ennobled 
by  the  softer  Christian  sentiment  which  purifies 
womanhood  and  gives  it  a  distinction  unknown  to  the 
sculptors  of  antiquity.  She  had  an  enormous  head, 
with  the  mascuHne  yet  delicate  forehead  of  the 
Jupiter  of  Phidias,  and  gray  eyes,  to  which  her 
chaste  life,  penetrating  fully  into  them,  carried  a 
flood  of  light.  The  features  of  her  round  face, 
formerly  fresh  and  rosy,  were  at  one  time  swollen 
by  the  smallpox,  which  destroyed  the  velvet  texture 
of  her  skin,  though  it  kindly  left  no  other  traces, 
and  her  cheek  was  still  so  soft  and  delicate  that  her 
mother's  kiss  made  a  momentary  red  mark  upon 
it.  Her  nose  was  somewhat  too  thick,  but  it  harmon- 
ized well  with  the  vermilion  mouth,  whose  lips, 
creased  in  many  lines,  were  full  of  love  and  kind- 
ness. The  throat  was  exquisitely  round.  The  bust, 
well  curved  and  carefully  covered,  attracted  the 
eye  and  inspired  revery.  It  lacked,  no  doubt,  the 
grace  which  a  fitting  dress  can  bestow;  but  to  a  con- 
noisseur the  non-flexibility  of  her  figure  had  its  own 
charm.  Eugenie,  tall  and  strongly  made,  had  none 
of  the  prettiness  which  pleases  the  masses;  but  she 
was  beautiful  with  a  beauty  which  the  spirit  recog- 
nizes, and  none  but  artists  truly  love.  A  painter 
seeking  here  below  for  a  type  of  Mary's  celestial  pur- 
ity, searching  womankind  for  those  proud  modest 
eyes  which  Raphael  divined,  for  those  virgin  lines, 
often  due  to  chances  of  conception,  which  the 
modesty  of  Christian  life  alone  can  bestow  or  keep 
unchanged, — such  a  painter,  in  love  with  his  ideal, 
would  have  found  in  the  face  of  Eugenie  the  innate 
nobleness  that  is  ignorant  of  itself;  he  would  have 
seen  beneath  the  calmness  of  that  brow  a  world  of 
love;  he  would  have  felt,  in  the  shape  of  the  eyes, 

216 


EUGENIE    GRANDET 

in  the  fall  of  the  eyelids,  the  presence  of  the  name- 
less something  that  we  call  divine.  Her  features,  the 
contour  of  her  head,  which  no  expression  of  pleasure 
had  ever  altered  or  wearied,  were  like  the  lines  of  the 
horizon  softly  traced  in  the  far  distance  across  the 
tranquil  lakes.  That  calm  and  rosy  countenance, 
margined  with  light  like  a  lovely  full-blown  flower, 
rested  the  mind,  held  the  eye,  and  imparted  the 
charm  of  the  conscience  that  was  there  reflected. 
Eugenie  was  standing  on  the  shore  of  life  where 
young  illusions  flower,  where  daisies  are  gathered 
with  delights  ere  long  to  be  unknown;  and  thus  she 
said,  looking  at  her  image  in  the  glass,  unconscious 
as  yet  of  love:  "I  am  too  ugly;  he  will  not  notice 
me." 

Then  she  opened  the  door  of  her  chamber  which 
led  to  the  staircase,  and  stretched  out  her  neck  to 
listen  for  the  household  noises.  "  He  is  not  up," 
she  thought,  hearing  Xanon's  morning  cough  as  the 
good  soul  went  and  came,  sweeping  out  the  halls, 
lighting  the  fire,  chaining  the  dog,  and  speaking  to 
the  beasts  in  the  stable.  Eugenie  at  once  went  down 
and  ran  to  Nanon,  who  was  milking  the  cow. 

"  Nanon,  my  good  Nanon,  make  a  little  cream  for 
my    cousin's    breakfast." 

"  Why,  mademoiselle,  you  should  have  thought 
of  that  yesterday,"  said  Nanon,  bursting  into  a  loud 
peal  of  laughter.  "  I  can't  make  cream.  Your 
cousin  is  a  darling,  a  darling !  oh,  that  he  is !  You 
should  have  seen  him  in  his  dressing  gown,  all  silk 
and  gold !  I  saw  him,  I  did !  He  wears  linen  as 
fine  as  the  surplice  of  monsieur  lecure." 

"  Nanon,  please  make  us  a  galette." 

"  And  who'll  give  me  wood  for  the  oven,  and  flour 
and  butter  for  the  cakes  ?  "  said  Nanon,  who  in  her 
function  of  prime-minister  to  Grandet  assumed  at 
times  enormous  importance  in  the  eyes  of  Eugenie 
and  her  mother.     *'  Mustn't  rob  the  master  to  feast 

217 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC  i 

I 

the  cousin.     You  ask  him  for  butter  and  flour  and 
wood:  he's  your  father,  perhaps  he'll  give  you  some.  \ 
See !  there  he  is  now,  coming  to  give  out  the  pro-  j 
visions."  ' 

Eugenie  escaped  into  the  garden,  quite  frightened  i 
as  she  heard  the  staircase  shaking  under  her  father's  ■ 
step.     Already   she   felt  the   effects   of   that   virgin  ' 
modesty  and  that  special  consciousness  of  happiness 
v\'hich  lead  us  to  fancy,  not  perhaps  without  reason, 
that  our  thoughts  are  graven  on  our  foreheads  and 
are  open  to  the  eyes  of  all.    Perceiving  for  the  first 
':ime  the  cold  nakedness  of  her   father's  house,  the  , 
poor  girl  felt  a  sort  of  rage  that  she  could  not  put 
it  in  harmony  with  her  cousin's  elegance.     She  felt 
the  need  of  doing  something  for  him, — what,  she  did  i 
not   know.      Ingenuous    and    truthful,    she    followed  : 
her  angelic  nature  without  mistrusting  her  impres-  ■ 
sions  or  her  feelings.      The  mere  sight  of  her  cousin  i 
had   wakened   within  her   the   natural   yearnings   of  | 
a  woman, — yearnings  that  were  the  more  likely  to 
develop  ardently  because,  having  reached  her  twenty-  ; 
third  year,  she  was  in  the  plenitude  of  her  intelli-  ' 
gence   and  her  desires.     For  the  first   time   in   her 
life  her  heart  was  full  of  terror  at  the  sight  of  het  j 
father;  in  him  she  saw  the  master  of  her  fate,  and  j 
she  fancied  herself  guilty  of  wrong-doing  in  hiding  I 
from  his   knowledge  certain  thoughts.     She   walked  ' 
with  hasty  steps,  surprised  to  breathe  a  purer  air,  i 
to  feel  the  sun's  rays  quickening  her  pulses,  to  absorb 
from   their  heat   a  moral   warmth   and   a   new  life. 
As   she   turned   over    in   her   mind    some   stratagem 
by  which  to  get  the  cake,  a  quarrel — an  event  as  rare  i 
as  the  sight  of  swallows  in  winter — broke  out  between  , 
la   Grande   Nanon   and   Grandet.      Armed   with   his  j 
keys,   the   master  had   come  to   dole  out   provisions  ' 
for   the   day's   consumption. 

**  Is  there  any  bread  left   from  yesterday  ?  *'   be  i 

said  to  Nanon.  , 

218  I 


EUGENIE    GRANDET 

•*  Not  a  crumb,  monsieur." 

Grandet  took  a  larjre  round  loaf,  well  floured  and 
moulded  in  one  of  the  flat  baskets,  which  they  use 
for  bakinpr  in  Anjou,  and  was  about  to  cut  it,  when 
Nanon  said  to  him, — 

"  We  are  five  to-day,  monsieur," 

"  That's    true,"    said    Grandet,    *'  but  your    loaves 
weigh   six  pounds;   there'll   be  some   left.      Besides, 
these   young    fellows    from    Paris    don't    eat    bread, 
1  you'll  see." 

"  Then  they  must  eat  frippe  ?  **  said  Nanon. 
f  Frippe  is  a  word  of  the  local  lexicon  of  Anjou, 
i  and  means  any  accompaniment  of  bread,  from  but- 
ter which  is  spread  upon  it,  the  commonest  kind  of 
frippe,  to  peach  preserve,  the  most  distinguished  of 
all  frippes;  those  who  in  their  childhood  have  licked 
the  frippe  and  left  the  bread,  will  comprehend  the 
tpeaning  of  Nanon's  speech. 

**  No,"  answered  Grandet,  "  they  eat  neither  bread 
nor  frippe;  thev  are  something  like  marriageable 
girls." 

After  ordering  the  meals  for  the  day  with  his 
usual  parsimony,  the  good  man,  having  locked  the 
closets  containing  the  supplies,  was  about  to  go 
towards  the  fruit-garden,  when  Nanon  stopped  him 
to  say,— 

"Monsieur,  give  me  a  little  flour  and  some  butter, 
and  I'll  make  a  palette  for  the  young  ones." 

"  Are  you  going  to  pillage  the  house  on  account  of 
tny  nephew  ?  " 

**  I  wasn't  thinking  any  more  of  your  nephew 
than  I  was  of  your  dog, — not  more  than  you  think 
yourself;  for,  look  here,  you've  only  forked  out  six 
bits  of  sugar.     I  want  eight." 

"What's  all  this,  Nanon?  I  have  never  seen  you 
like  this  before.  What  have  you  got  in  your  head? 
Are  you  the  mistress  here?  You  sha'n't  have  more 
than  six  pieces  of  sugar." 

219 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC 

"  Well,  then,  how  is  your  nephew  to  sweeten  his 
coffee  ?  " 

"With  two  pieces;  I'll  go  without  myself," 

**  Go  without  sugar  at  your  age !  I'd  rather  buy 
you  some  out  of  my  own  pocket." 

"  Mind  your  own  business," 

In  spite  of  the  recent  fall  of  prices,  sugar  was  still 
in  Grandet's  eyes  the  most  valuable  of  all  the  colonial 
products;  to  him  it  was  always  six  francs  a  pound. 
The  necessity  of  economizing  it,  acquired  under  the 
Empire,  had  grown  to  be  the  most  inveterate  of  his 
habits.  All  women,  even  the  greatest  ninnies,  knew 
how  to  dodge  and  double  to  get  their  ends;  Nanon 
abandoned  the  sugar  for  the  sake  of  getting  the 
galette. 

"  Mademoiselle  ! "  she  called  through  the  window, 
"  do  you  want  some  galette  ? " 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Eugenie. 

"  Come,  Nanon,"  said  Grandet,  hearing  his  daugh- 
ter's voice,  "  see  here,"  He  opened  the  cupboard 
where  the  flour  was  kept,  gave  her  a  cupful,  and 
added  a  few  ounces  of  butter  to  the  piece  he  had 
already  cut  off, 

"  I  shall  want  wood  for  the  oven,"  said  the  implac- 
able Nanon, 

"  Well,  take  what  you  want,"  he  answered  sadly ; 
"  but  in  that  case  you  must  make  us  a  fruit-tart, 
and  you'll  cook  the  whole  dinner  in  the  oven.  In 
that  way  you  won't  need  two  fires." 

"  Goodness  ! "  cried  Nanon,  "  you  needn't  tell  me 
that." 

Grandet  cast  a  look  that  was  well-nigh  paternal 
upon  his  faithful  deputy. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  she  cried,  when  his  back  was 
turned,  "  we  shall  have  the  galette." 


930 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

James  Matthew  Barrie,  author  and  dramatist, 
was  born,  in  1860,  at  Kirriemuir,  Scotland.  He  has 
produced  ten  novels,  of  which  the  most  popular  have 
been  "A  Window  in  Thrums,"  "The  Little  Minis- 
ter" and  "  Sentimental  Tommy."  For  the  last  three 
years  he  has  devoted  the  greater  part  of  his  time  to 
play-writing. 

COURTSHIPS 

(From  "The  Aukl  Lichts/'Charlos  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers 
of  Mr.  Barric's  v\  orks  in  America) 

WITH  the  severe  Auld  Lichts  the  Sabbath  began 
at  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening.  By  that 
time  the  gleaming  shuttle  was  at  rest,  Davie  Hag- 
gart  had  strolled  into  the  village  from  his  pile  of 
stones  on  the  Whunny  road;  Hendry  Robb,  the 
"  dummy,"  had  sold  his  last  barrowful  of  "  rozetty 
(resiny)  roots"  for  firewood;  and  the  people,  hav- 
ing tranquilly  supped  and  soused  their  faces  in  their 
water  pails,  slowly  donned  their  Sunday  clothes. 
This  ceremony  was  common  to  all;  but  here  diver- 
gence set  in.  The  gray  Auld  Licht,  to  whom  love 
was  not  even  a  name,  sat  in  his  high-backed  arm- 
chair by  the  hearth,  Bible  or  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  " 
in  hand,  occasionally  lapsing  into  slumber.  But — 
though,  when  they  got  the  chance,  they  went  will- 
ingly three  times  to  the  kirk — there  were  young  men 
in  the  community  so  flighty  that,  instead  of  dozing 
at  home  on  Saturday  night,  they  dandered  casually 
into  the  square,  and,  forming  into  knots  at  the  cor- 
ners, talked  solemnly  and  mysteriously  of  women. 
Not  even  on  the  night  preceding  his  wedding  was 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

an  Auld  Licht  ever  known  to  stay  out  after  ten 
o'clock.  So  weekly  conclaves  at  street  corners  came 
to  an  end  at  a  comparatively  early  hour,  one  Coelebs 
after  another  shuffling  silently  from  the  square  until 
it  echoed,  deserted,  to  the  townhouse  clock.  The 
last  of  the  gallants,  gradualh^  discovering  that  he 
was  alone,  would  look  around  him  musingly,  and, 
*^aking  in  the  situation,  slowly  wend  his  way  home. 
On  no  other  night  of  the  week  was  frivolous  talk 
about  the  softer  sex  indulged  in,  the  Aidd  Lichts 
being  creatures  of  habit  who  never  thought  of  smil- 
ing on  a  Monday.  Long  before  they  reached  their 
teens  they  were  earning  their  keep  as  herds  in  the 
surrounding  glens  or  filling  "  pirns  *'  for  their 
parents;  but  they  were  generally  on  the  brink  of 
twenty  before  they  thought  seriously  of  matrimony. 
Up  to  that  time  they  only  trifled  with  the  other 
sex's  affections  at  a  distance — filling  a  maid's  water 
pails,  perhaps,  when  no  one  was  looking,  or  carrying 
her  wob;  at  the  recollection  of  which  they  would 
slap  their  knees  almost  jovially  on  Saturday  night. 
A  wife  was  expected  to  assist  at  the  loom  as  well 
as  to  be  cunning  in  the  making  of  marmalade  and 
the  firing  of  bannocks,  and  there  was  consequently 
some  heartburning  among  the  lads  for  maids  of 
skill  and  muscle.  The  Auld  Licht,  however,  who 
meant  marriage  seldom  loitered  in  the  streets.  By 
and  by  there  came  a  time  when  the  clock  looked 
down  through  its  cracked  glass  upon  the  hemmed-in 
square  and  saw  him  not.  His  companions,  gazing 
at  each  other's  boots,  felt  that  something  was  going 
on,  but  made  no  remark. 

A  month  ago,  passing  through  the  shabby  familiar 
square,  I  brushed  against  a  withered  old  man  totter- 
ing down  the  street  under  a  load  of  yarn.  It  was 
piled  on  a  wheelbarrow,  which  his  feeble  hands 
could  not  have  raised  but  for  the  rope  of  yarn  that 
supported  it  from  his  shoulders;    and  though  Auld 


COURTSHIPS 

Licht  was  written  on  liis  patient  eyes,  I  did  not 
immediately  recognize  Jamie  Whamond.  Years  ago 
Jamie  was  a  sturdy  weaver  and  fervent  lover  whom 
I  had  the  right  to  call  my  friend.  Turn  back  the 
century  a  few  decades,  and  wc  are  together  on  a 
moonlight  night,  taking  a  short  cut  through  the 
fields  from  the  farm  of  Craigiebuckle.  Buxom 
were  Craigiebuckle's  "  dochters,"  and  Jamie  was 
Janet's  accepted  suitor.  It  was  a  muddy  road 
through  damp  grass,  and  we  picked  our  way  silently 
over  its  ruts  and  pools.  "  I'm  thinkin',"  Jamie  said 
at  last,  a  little  wistfully,  "  that  I  micht  hae  been  as 
weel  wi'  Chirsty." 

Chlrsty  was  Janet's  sister,  and  Jamie  had  first 
thought  of  her.  Craigiebuckle,  however,  strongly 
advised  him  to  take  Janet  instead,  and  he  consented. 
Alack !  heavy  wobs  have  taken  all  the  grace  from 
Janet's  shoulders  this  many  a  year,  though  she  and 
Jamie  go  bravely  down  the  hill  together.  Unless 
they  pass  the  allotted  span  of  life,  the  "  poors- 
house  "  will  never  know  them.  As  for  bonny  Chirsty, 
she  proved  a  flighty  thing,  and  married  a  deacon  in 
the  Established  Church.  The  Auld  Lichts  groaned 
over  her  fall,  Craigiebuckle  hung  his  head,  and  the 
minister  told  her  sternly  to  go  her  way.  But  a  feu 
weeks  afterwards  Lang  Tammas,  the  chief  elder, 
was  observed  talking  with  her  for  an  hour  in  Cow- 
rie's close;  and  the  very  next  Sabbath  Chirsty 
pushed  her  husband  in  triumph  into  her  father's 
pew.  The  minister,  though  completely  taken  by  sur- 
prise, at  once  referred  to  the  stranger,  in  a  prayer 
of  great  length,  as  a  brand  that  might  yet  be 
plucked  from  the  burning.  Changing  his  text,  he 
preached  at  him;  I.ang  Tammas,  the  precentor,  and 
the  whole  congregation  (Chirsty  included),  sang  at 
him;  and  before  be  exactly  realized  his  position  he 
had  become  an  Auld  Licht  for  life.  Chirsty's  tri- 
umph was  complete  when,  next  week,  in  broad  day- 

223 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

light,  too,  the  minister's  wife  called,  and  (in  the 
presence  of  Betsj  Munn,  who  vouches  for  the  truth 
of  the  story)  graciously  asked  her  to  come  up  to 
the  manse  on  Thursday,  at  4  p.  m.,  and  drink  a  dish 
of  tea.  Chirsty,  who  knew  her  position,  of  course 
begged  modestly  to  be  excused;  but  a  coolness  arose 
over  the  invitation  between  her  and  Janet — who  felt 
slighted — that  was  only  made  up  at  the  laying-out 
of  Chirsty's  father-in-law,  to  which  Janet  was 
pleasantly  invited. 

When  they  had  red  up  the  house,  the  Auld  Licht 
lassies  sat  in  the  gloaming  at  their  doors  on  three- 
legged  stools,  patiently  knitting  stockings.  To  them 
came  stiff -limbed  youths  who,  with  a  "  Blawy  nicht, 
Jeanie  "  (to  which  the  inevitable  answer  was,  "  It  is 
so,  Cha-rles"),  rested  their  shoulders  on  the  door- 
post and  silently  followed  with  their  eyes  the  flash- 
ing needles.  Thus  the  courtship  began — often  to 
ripen  promptly  into  marriage,  at  other  times  to  go 
no  further.  The  smooth-haired  maids,  neat  in  their 
simple  wrappers,  knew  they  were  on  their  trial  and 
that  it  behooved  them  to  be  wary.  They  had  not 
compassed  twenty  winters  without  knowing  that 
Marget  Todd  lost  Davie  Haggart  because  she 
"  fittit "  a  black  stocking  with  brown  worsted,  and 
that  Finny's  grieve  turned  from  Bell  Whamond  on 
account  of  the  frivolous  flowers  in  her  bonnet:  and 
yet  Bell's  prospects,  as  I  happen  to  know,  at  one 
time  looked  bright  and  promising.  Sitting  over  her 
father's  peat  fire  one  night  gossiping  with  him 
about  fishing  flies  and  tackle,  I  noticed  the  grieve, 
who  had  dropped  in  by  appointment  with  some 
ducks'  eggs  on  which  Bell's  clockin  hen  was  to  sit, 
performing  some  slight-of-hand  trick  with  his  coat 
sleeve.  Craftily  he  jerked  and  twisted  it,  till  his 
own  photograph  (a  black  smudge  on  white)  gradu- 
ally appeared  to  view.  This  he  gravely  slipped  into 
the  hands  of  the  maid  of  his  choice,  and  then  took 

224 


COURTSHIPS 

his  departure,  apparently  much  relieved.  liaa  not 
Bell's  light-headedness  driven  him  away,  the  grieve 
would  have  soon  followed  up  his  gift  with  an  oflfer 
of  his  hand.  Some  night  Bell  would  have  "  seen 
him  to  the  door,"  and  thej  would  have  stared 
sheepishly  at  each  other  hefore  saying  good  night. 
The  parting  salutation  given,  the  grieve  would  still 
have  stood  his  ground,  and  Bell  would  have  waited 
with  him.  At  last,  "Will  ye  hae  's.  Bell?"  would 
have  dropped  from  his  half-reluctant  lips;  and 
Bell  would  have  mumbled,  "  Ay,"  with  her  thumb 
in  her  mouth.  "  Guid  nicht  to  ye.  Bell,"  would  be 
the  next  remark — "  Guid  nicht  to  ye,  Jeames,"  the 
answer;  the  humble  door  would  close  softly,  and 
Bell  and  her  lad  would  have  been  engaged.  But,  as 
it  was,  their  attachment  never  got  beyond  the  sil- 
houette stage,  from  which,  in  the  ethics  of  the  Auld 
Lichts,  a  man  can  draw  back  in  certain  circum- 
stances without  loss  of  honor.  The  only  really  ten- 
der thing  I  ever  heard  an  Auld  Licht  lover  say  to 
his  sweetheart  was  when  Gowrie's  brother  looked 
softly  into  Easie  Tamson's  eyes  and  whispered, 
"Do  you  swite  (sweat)  ?  "  Even  then  the  effect  was 
produced  more  by  the  loving  cast  in  Gowrie's  eye 
than  by  the  tenderness  of  the  words  themselves. 

The  courtships  were  sometimes  of  long  duration, 
but  as  soon  as  the  young  man  realized  that  he  was 
courting  he  proposed.  Cases  were  not  wanting  in 
which  he  realized  this  for  himself,  but  as  a  rule  he 
had  to  be  told  of  it. 

There  were  a  few  instances  of  weddings  among 
the  Auld  Lichts  that  did  not  take  place  on  Friday. 
Betsy  Munn's  brother  thought  to  assert  his  two  coal 
carts,  about  which  he  was  sinfully  puffed  up,  by  get- 
ting married  early  in  the  week;  but  he  was  a  prag- 
matical feckless  body,  Jamie.  The  foreigner  from 
York  that  Finny's  grieve  after  disappointing  Jinny 
Whamond,  took,  sought  to  sew  the  seeds  of  strife 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

by  urging  that  Friday  was  an  unlucky  day;    and  1 
remember  how  the  minister,  who  was  always  great 
in  a  crisis,  nipped  the  bickering  in  the  bud  by  ad- 
ducing the  conclusive  fact  that  he  had  been  married 
on  the  sixth  day  of  the  week  himself.     It  was  a 
judicious  policy  on  Mr.  Dishart's  part  to  take  vig- 
orous action  at  once  and  insist  on  the  solemnization 
of  the  marriage  on  a  Friday  or  not  at  all,  for  he 
oest  kept  superstition  out  of  the  congregation  by. 
branding  it   as   heresy.     Perhaps   the   Auld   Lichts  i 
were  only  ignorant  of  the  grieve's  lass'  theory  be-| 
cause  they  had  not  thought  of  it.     Friday's  claims,* 
too,  were  incontrovertible;    for  the  Saturday's  being; 
a  slack  day  gave  the  couple  an  opportunity  to  put^ 
their  but  and  ben  in  order,   and  on   Sabbath  theyl 
had  a  faj  day  of  it,  three  times  at  the  kirk.     Thai 
honeymoon  over,  the  racket  of  the  loom  began  again  | 
on  the  Monday. 

The  natural  politeness  of  the  Allardice  family  I 
gave  me  my  invitation  to  Tibbie's  wedding.  I  was 
taking  tea  and  cheese  early  one  wintry  afternoon  ' 
with  the  smith  and  his  wife,  when  little  Joey  Todd  i 
in  his  Sabbath  clothes  peered  in  at  the  passage,  and  j 
then  knocked  primly  at  the  door.  Andra  forgot  him-  : 
self,  and  called  out  to  him  to  come  in  by;  but  Jess  | 
frowned  him  into  silence,  and  hastily  donning  her  \ 
black  mutch,  received  Willie  on  the  threshold.  Both  i 
halves  of  the  door  were  open,  and  the  visitor  had  i 
looked  us  over  carefully  before  knocking;  but  nt  ■ 
had  come  with  the  compliments  of  Tibbie's  mother,  | 
requesting  the  pleasure  of  Jess  and  her  man  that  \ 
evening  to  the  lassie's  marriage  with  Sam'l  Todd, ! 
and  the  knocking  at  the  door  was  part  of  the  cere-  | 
mony.  Five  minutes  afterward  Joey  returned  to 
beg  a  moment  of  me  in  the  passage ;  when  I,  too,  1 
got  my  invitation.  The  lad  had  just  received,  with  I 
an  expression  of  polite  surprise,  though  he  knew  he  I 
could  clain?  it  as  his  right,  a  slice  of  crumbling  j 


COURTSHIPS 

shortbread,  and  taken  his  staid  departure,  when  Jess 
cleared  the  tea  things  off  the  table,  remarking 
simplj  that  it  was  a  mercy  we  had  not  got  beyond 
the  first  cup.     We  then  retired  to  dress. 

About  six  o'clock,  the  time  announced  for  the 
ceremony,  I  elbowed  my  way  through  the  expectant 
throng  of  men,  women  and  children  that  already  be- 
sieged the  smith's  door.  Shrill  demands  of  "  toss, 
toss !  "  rent  the  air  every  time  Jess'  head  showed  on 
the  window  blind,  and  Andra  hoped,  as  I  pushed 
open  the  door,  "  that  I  hadna  forgotten  my  baw- 
bees." Weddings  were  celebrated  among  the  Auld 
Lichts  by  showers  of  ha-pence,  and  the  guests  on 
their  way  to  the  bride's  house  had  to  scatter  to 
the  hungry  rabble  like  housewives  feeding  poultry. 
Willie  Todd,  the  best  man,  who  had  never  come  out 
so  strong  in  his  life  before,  slipped  through  the  back 
window,  while  the  crowd,  led  on  by  Kitty  McQueen, 
seethed  in  front,  and  making  a  bolt  for  it  to  the 
•'  Sosh,"  was  back  in  a  moment  with  a  handful  of 
small  change.  "  Dinna  toss  ower  lavishly  at  first," 
the  smith  whispered  me  nervously,  as  we  followed 
Jess  and  Willie  into  the  darkening  yard. 

The  guests  were  packed  hot  and  solemn  in  Johnny 
Allardice'  "room":  the  men  anxious  to  surrender 
their  seat  to  the  ladies  who  happened  to  be  standing 
but  too  bashful  to  propose  it;  the  ham  and  the  fish 
frizzling  noisily  side  by  side  but  the  house,  and  hiss- 
ing out  every  now  and  then  to  let  all  whom  it  might 
concern  know  that  Janet  Craik  was  adding  more 
water  to  the  gravy.  A  better  woman  never  lived; 
but  oh !  the  hypocrisy  of  the  face  that  beamed 
greeting  to  the  guests  as  if  it  had  nothing  to  do  but 
politely  show  them  in,  and  gasped  next  moment  with 
upraised  arms,  over  what  was  nearly  a  fall  in 
crockery.  When  Janet  sped  to  the  door  her  "  spleet 
new"  merion  dress  fell,  to  the  pulling  of  a  string, 
over  her  home-made  petticoat,  like  the  drop  scene 
227 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE  i 

in  a  theater,  and  rose   as  promptly  when   she  re-  : 
turned  to  slice  the  bacon.     The  murmur  of  admira- 
tion that  filled  the  room  when  she  entered  with  the  i 
minister  was  an  involuntary  tribute  to  the  spotless-  ' 
ness    of    her    wrapper,    and    a    great    triumph    for  ; 
Janet.     If  there  is  an  impression  that  the  dress  of  j 
the  Auld  Lichts  was  on  all  occasions  as  somber  as 
their  faces,  let  it  be  known  that  the  bride  was  but 
one  of  several  in  "  whites,"  and  that  Mag  Munn  had  . 
only  at  the  last  moment  been  dissuaded  from  wear- 
ing flowers.     The   minister,   the   Auld   Lichts   con-  ', 
gratulated  themselves,  disapproved  of  all  such  deck-  i 
ing  of  the  person  and  bowing  of  the  head  to  idols;  ' 
but   on   such   an   occasion  he  was   not   expected  to  ' 
observe  it.     Bell  Whamond,  however,  has  reason  for  ^ 
knowing  that,  marriages  or  no  marriages,  he  drew  5 
the  line  at  curls. 

By  and  by  Sam'l  Todd,  looking  a  little  dazed,  was 
pushed  into  the  middle  of  the  room  to  Tibbie's  side, 
and  the  minister  raised  his   voice  in  prayer.     All  i 
eyes    closed   reverently,   except   perhaps   the   bride-  i 
groom's,  which  seemed  glazed  and  vacant.     It  was  i 
an   open   question   in   the   community   whether   Mr. 
Dishart  did  not  miss  his  chance  at  weddings,  the  [i 
men  shaking  their  heads  over  the  comparative  brev-  | 
ity  of  the  ceremony,  the  women  worshi.  ping  him  I 
(though  he   never  hesitated  to   rebuke   them   when 
they  showed  it  too  openly)   for  the  urbanity  of  his   \ 
manners.     At  that  time,  however,  only  a  minister  of  ; 
such  experience  as  Mr.  Dishart's  predecessor  could   ) 
lead  up  to  a  marriage  in  prayer  without  inadvert-  3 
ently  joining  the  couple;    and  the  catechizing  was  i 
mercifully    brief.      Another    prayer    followed    the  | 
union;    the   minister   waived   his    right   to   kiss   the 
bride;    every  one  looked  at  every  other  one,  as  if 
he  had  for  the  moment  forgotten  what  he  was  on 
the  point  of  saying  and   found  it  very   annoying; 
and  Janet  signed   frantically  fo  Willie  Todd,  who 

228 


COURTSHIPS 

nodded  intelligently  in  reply,  but  evidently  had  no 
idea  what  she  meant.  In  time  Johnny  AUardice, 
our  host,  who  became  more  and  more  doited  as  the 
night  proceeded,  remembered  his  instructions,  and 
led  the  way  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  guests,  having 
politely  informed  their  hostess  that  they  were  not 
hungry,  partook  of  a  hearty  tea.  Mr.  Dishart  pre- 
sided, with  the  bride  and  bridegroom  near  him;  but 
though  he  tried  to  give  an  agreeable  turn  to  the  con- 
versation by  describing  the  extensions  at  the  ceme- 
tery, his  personality  oppressed  us,  and  we  only 
breathed  freely  when  he  rose  to  go.  Yet  we  mar- 
^'elled  at  his  versatility.  In  shaking  hands  with  the 
newly  married  couple  the  minister  reminded  them 
that  it  was  leap  year,  and  wished  them  "  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-six  happy  and  God-fearing  days." 

Sam'l  station  being  too  high  for  it,  Tibbie  did  not 
have  a  penny  wedding,  which  her  thrifty  mother  be- 
wailed, penny  weddings  starting  a  couple  in  life. 
I  can  recall  nothing  more  characteristic  of  the  na- 
tion from  which  the  Auld  Lichts  sprung  than  the 
penny  wedding,  v/here  the  only  revellers  that  were 
not  out  of  pocket  by  it  were  the  couple  who  gave 
the  entertainment.  The  more  the  guests  ate  and 
drank  the  better,  pecuniarily,  for  their  hosts.  The 
charge  for  admission  to  the  penny  wedding  (prac- 
tically to  the  feast  that  followed  it)  varied  in  differ- • 
ent  districts,  but  with  us  it  was  generally  a  shilling. 
Perhaps  the  penny  extra  to  the  fiddler  accounts  for 
the  name  penny  wedding.  The  ceremony  having 
been  gone  through  in  the  bride's  house,  there  was 
an  adjournment  to  a  barn  or  other  convenient  place 
of  meeting,  where  was  held  the  nuptial  feast.  Long 
white  boards  from  Rob  Angus'  sawmill,  supported 
on  trestles,  stood  in  lieu  of  tables;  and  those  of  the 
company  who  could  not  find  a  seat  waited  patiently 
against  the  wall  for  a  vacancy.  The  shilling  gave 
•very  guest  the  free  run  of  the  groaning  board;  but 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

though  fowls  were  plentiful,  and  even  white  bread, 
too,  little  had  been  spent  on  them.  The  farmers  of 
the  neighborhood,  who  looked  forward  to  providing 
the  young  people  with  drills  of  potatoes  for  the  com- 
ing winter,  made  a  bid  for  their  custom  hj  sending 
them  a  fowl  gratis  for  the  marriage  supper.  It  was 
popularly  understood  to  be  the  oldest  cock  of  the 
farmyard,  but  for  all  that  it  made  a  brave  appear- 
ance in  a  shallow  sea  of  soup.  The  fowls  were 
always  boiled — without  exception,  so  far  as  my 
memory  carries  me — the  guidwife  never  having  the 
heart  to  roast  them,  and  so  lose  the  broth.  One 
round  of  whiskey  and  water  was  all  the  drink  to 
which  his  shilling  entitled  the  guest.  If  he  wanted 
more  he  had  to  pay  for  it.  There  was  much  revelry, 
with  song  and  dance,  that  no  stranger  could  have 
thought  those  stiff-limbed  weavers  capable  of;  and 
the  more  they  shouted  and  whirled  through  the  barn, 
the  more  their  host  smiled  and  rubbed  his  hands. 
He  presided  at  the  bar  improvised  for  the  occasion, 
and  if  the  thing  was  conducted  with  spirit,  his  bride 
flung  an  apron  over  her  gown  and  helped  him.  I 
'•emember  one  elderly  bridegroom,  who,  having  mar- 
ried a  blind  woman,  had  to  do  double  work  at  b> 
penny  wedding.  It  was  a  sight  to  see  him  flittiu 
about  the  torch-lit  barn,  with  a  kettle  of  hot  water 
in  one  hand  and  a  besom  to  sweep  up  crumbs  in  the 
other. 

Though  Sam'l  had  no  penny  wedding,  however,  we 
made  a  night  of  it  at  his  marriage. 

Wedding  chariots  were  not  in  those  days,  though  ii 
I  know  of  Auld  Lichts  being  conveyed  to  marriages  j 
nowadays  by  horses  with  white  ears.  The  tea  over.  i 
we  formed  in  couples,  and — the  best  man  with  the  \n 
bride,  the  bridegroom  with  the  best  maid,  leading  ly 
the  way — marched  in  slow  procession  in  the  moon-  lij 
light  night  to  Tibbie's  new  home,  between  lines  of  It 
hoarse  and  eager  onlookers.  An  attempt  was  made  i| 
^0  I 


ELECTION    DAY    FESTIVITIES 

by  an  itinerant  musician  to  head  the  company  with 
his  fiddle;  but  instrumental  music,  even  in  the 
streets,  was  abhorrent  to  sound  Auld  Lichts,  and  the 
minister  had  spoken  privately  to  Willie  Todd  on  the 
subject.  As  a  consequence,  Peter  was  driven  from 
the  ranks.  The  last  thing  I  saw  that  night,  as  we 
filed,  bare-headed  and  solemn,  into  the  newly  mar- 
ried couple's  house,  was  Kitty  McQueen's  vigorous 
arm,  in  a  dishevelled  sleeve,  pounding  a  pair  of 
urchins  who  had  got  between  her  and  a  muddy 
ha'penny. 

That  night  there  was  revelry  and  boisterous  mirth 
(or  what  the  Auld  Lichts  took  for  such)  in  Tibbie's 
kitchen.  At  eleven  o'clock  Davit  Lunan  cracked  a 
joke.  Davie  Haggart,  in  reply  to  Bell  Dundas'  re- 
quest, gave  a  song  of  distinctly  secular  tendencies. 
The  bride  (who  had  carefully  taken  off  her  wedding 
gown  on  getting  home  and  donned  a  wrapper)  co- 
quettishly  let  the  bridegroom's  father  hold  her  hand. 
In  Auld  Licht  circles,  when  one  of  the  company  was 
offered  whisky  and  refused  it,  the  others,  as  if 
pained  at  the  offer,  pushed  it  from  them  as  a  thing 
abhorred.  But  Davie  Haggart  set  another  example 
on  this  occasion,  and  no  one  had  the  courage  to 
refuse  to  follow  it.  We  sat  late  round  the  dying 
fire,  and  it  was  only  Willie  Todd's  scandalous  asser- 
tion (he  was  but  a  boy)  about  his  being  able  to 
dance  that  induced  us  to  think  of  moving.  In  the 
community,  I  understand,  this  marriage  is  still 
memorable  as  the  occasion  on  which  Bell  Whamond 
laughed  in  the  minister's  face. 

ELECTION    DAY    FESTIVITIES 

(Prom  "  The  Anld  Lichts  ") 

WHEN   an  election   day   comes   round   now,   it 
takes  me  back  to  the  time  of  1832.    I  would 
be  eight  or  ten  year  old  at  that  time.    James  Stra- 

231 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

chan  was  at  the  door  bj  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
in  his  Sabbath  clothes,  by  arrangement.  We  was  to 
go  up  to  the  hill  to  see  them  building  the  bonfire. 
Moreover,  there  was  a  word  that  Mr.  Scrimgour  was 
to  be  there  tossing  pennies,  just  like  at  a  marriage. 
I  was  wakened  before  that  by  my  mother  at  the 
pans  and  bowls.  I  have  always  associated  elections 
since  that  time  with  jelly  making;  for  just  as  my 
mother  would  fill  the  cups  and  tankers  and  bowls 
with  jelly  to  save  cans,  she  was  emptying  the  pots 
and  pans  to  make  way  for  the  ale  and  porter.  James 
and  me  was  to  help  to  carry  it  home  from  the 
square — him  in  the  pitcher  and  me  in  a  flagon, 
because  I  was  silly  for  my  age  and  not  strong  in 
the  arms. 

It  was  a  very  blowy  morning,  though  the  rain  kept 
offf  and  what  part  of  the  bonfire  had  been  built 
already  was  found  scattered  to  the  winds.  Before 
we  rose  a  great  mass  of  folk  was  getting  the  bar- 
lels  and  things  together  again;  but  some  of  them 
was  never  recovered,  and  suspicion  pointed  to  Will- 
itm  Geddes,  it  being  well  known  that  William  would 
not  hesitate  to  carry  oflF  anything  unobserved.  More 
by  token  Chirsty  Lamby  had  seen  him  rolling  home 
a  barrowful  of  firewood  early  in  the  morning,  her 
having  risen  to  hold  cold  water  in  her  mouth,  being 
down  with  the  toothache.  When  we  got  up  to  the 
hill  everybody  was  making  for  the  quarry,  which 
being  more  sheltered  was  now  thought  to  be  a  better 
place  for  the  bonfire.  The  masons  had  struck  work, 
it  being  a  general  holiday  in  the  whole  country 
side.  There  was  a  great  commotion  of  people,  all 
fine  dressed  and  mostly  with  glengarry  bonnets; 
and  me  and  James  was  well  acquaint  with  them, 
though  mostly  weavers  and  the  like  and  not  my 
father's  equal.  Mr.  Scrimgour  was  not  there  him- 
self; but  there  was  a  small,  active  body  in  his  room 
as  tossed  the  money  for  him  fair  enough;    though 


ELECTION    DAY    FESTIVITIES 

not  so  liberally  as  was  expected,  being  mostly 
ha'pence  where  pennies  were  looked  for.  Such  was 
not  my  fathers'  opinion,  and  him  and  a  few  others 
only  had  a  vote.  He  considered  it  was  a  waste  of 
money  p:iving  to  them  that  had  no  vote  and  so  taking 
out  of  other  folks'  mouths,  but  the  little  man  said 
it  kept  everybody  in  good  humor  and  made  Mr. 
Scrimgour  popular.  He  was  an  extraordinary  affa- 
ble man  and  very  spirity,  running  about  to  waste  no 
time  in  walking,  and  gave  me  a  shilling,  saying  to  me 
to  be  a  truthful  boy  and  tell  my  father.  He  did 
not  give  James  anything,  him  being  an  orphan,  but 
clapped  his  head  and  said  he  was  a  fine  boy. 

The  Captain  was  to  vote  for  the  Bill  if  he  got  In, 
the  which  he  did.  It  was  the  Captain  was  to  give 
the  ale  and  porter  in  the  square  like  a  true  gentle- 
man. My  father  gave  a  kind  of  laugh  when  I  let 
him  see  my  shilling,  and  said  he  would  keep  care  of 
it  for  me ;  and  sorry  I  was  I  let  him  get  it,  me  never 
seeing  the  face  of  it  again  to  this  day.  Me  and 
James  was  much  annoyed  with  women,  especially 
Kitty  Davie,  always  pushing  in  when  there  was 
tossing,  and  tearing  the  very  ha'pence  out  of  our 
hands:  us  not  caring  so  much  about  the  money,  but 
humiliated  to  see  women  mixing  up  in  politics.  By 
the  time  the  topmost  barrel  was  on  the  bonfire  there 
was  a  great  smell  of  whisky  in  the  quarry,  it  being 
a  confined  place.  My  father  had  been  against  the 
bonfire  being  in  the  quarry,  arguing  that  the  wind 
on  the  hill  would  have  carried  off  the  smell  of  the 
whisky;  but  Peter  Tosh  said  they  did  not  want 
the  smell  carried  off — it  would  be  agreeable  to  the 
masons  for  weeks  to  come.  Except  among  the 
women  there  was  no  fighting  nor  wrangling  at  the 
quarry  but  all  in  fine  spirits. 

I  misremember  now  whether  it  was  Mr.  Scrim- 
gour or  the  Captain  that  took  the  fancy  to  my 
father's  pigs;   but  it  was  this  day,  at  any  rate,  that 

233 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

the  Captain  sent  them  the  gamecock.  Whichever  one 
it  was  that  fancied  the  litter  of  pigs,  nothing  would 
content  him  but  to  buy  them,  which  he  did  at  thirty 
shillings  each,  being  the  best  bargain  ever  mj 
father  made.  Nevertheless  I'm  thinking  he  was 
windier  of  the  cock.  The  Captain,  who  was  a  local 
man  when  not  with  his  regiment,  had  the  grandest 
collection  of  fighting  cocks  in  the  county,  and  some- 
times came  into  the  town  to  try  them  against  the 
town  cocks.  I  mind  well  the  large  wicker  cage  in 
which  they  were  conveyed  from  place  to  place,  and 
never  without  the  Captain  near  at  hand.  My  father 
had  a  cock  that  beat  all  the  other  town  cocks  at  the 
cockfight  at  our  school,  which  was  superintended 
by  the  elder  of  the  kirk  to  see  fair  play;  but  the 
which  died  of  its  wounds  the  next  day  but  one. 
This  was  a  great  grief  to  my  father,  it  having  been 
challenged  to  fight  the  Captain's  cock.  Therefore 
it  was  very  considerate  of  the  Captain  to  make  my 
father  a  present  of  his  bird;  father,  in  compliment 
to  him,  changing  its  name  from  the  "  Deil "  to  the 
"  Captain." 

During  the  forenoon,  and  I  think  until  well  on  in 
the  day,  James  and  me  was  busy  with  the  pitcher 
and  the  flagon.  The  proceedings  in  the  square,  how- 
ever, was  not  so  well  conducted  as  in  the  quarry, 
many  of  the  folk  there  assembled  showing  a  mean 
and  grasping  spirit.  The  Captain  had  given  orders 
that  there  was  to  be  no  stint  of  ale  and  porter,  and 
neither  there  was;  but  much  of  it  lost  through 
hastiness.  Great  barrels  was  hurled  into  the  middle 
of  the  square,  where  the  country  wives  sat  with 
their  eggs  and  butter  on  market  day,  and  was 
quickly  stove  in  with  an  axe  or  paving  stone  or  what- 
ever came  handy.  Sometimes  they  would  break  into 
the  barrel  at  different  points;  and  then,  when  they 
tilted  it  up  to  get  the  ale  out  at  one  hole,  it  gushed 
out  at  the  bottom  till  the  square  was  flooded.     My^ 

£'34. 


ELECTION    DAY    FESTIVITIES 

mother  was  fair  disgusted  when  told  by  me  and 
James  of  the  waste  of  good  liquor.  It  is  gospel 
truth  I  speak  when  I  say  I  mind  well  of  seeing 
Singer  Davie  catching  the  porter  in  a  pan  as  it  ran 
down  the  sire,  and,  when  the  pan  was  full  to  over- 
flowing, putting  his  mouth  to  the  stream  and  drink- 
ing till  he  was  as  full  as  the  pan.  Most  of  the  men, 
however,  stuck  to  the  barrels,  the  drink  running 
in  the  street  being  ale  and  porter  mixed,  and  left  it 
to  the  women  and  the  young  folk  to  do  the  carrying. 
Susy  McQueen  brought  as  many  pans  as  she  could 
collect  on  a  barrow,  and  was  filling  them  all  with 
porter,  rejecting  the  ale;  but  indignation  was 
aroused  against  her,  and  as  fast  as  she  filled,  the 
others  emptied. 

My  father  scorned  to  go  to  the  square  to  drink 
al«  and  porter  with  the  crowd,  having  the  election 
on  his  mind  and  him  to  vote.  Nevertheless  he  in- 
structed me  and  James  to  keep  up  a  brisk  trade 
with  the  pans,  and  run  back  across  the  gardens  in 
case  we  met  dishonest  folk  in  the  streets  who  might 
drink  the  ale.  Also,  said  my  father,  we  was  to  let 
the  excesses  of  our  neighbors  be  a  warning  i^ 
sobriety  to  us;  enough  being  as  good  as  a  feast, 
except  when  you  can  store  it  up  for  th^  winter. 
By  and  by  my  mother  thought  it  was  not  safe  me 
being  in  the  streets  with  so  many  wild  men  about, 
and  would  have  sent  James  himself,  him  being  an 
orphan  and  hardier;  but  this  I  did  not  like,  but, 
running  out,  did  not  come  back  for  long  enough. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the*  music  was  to  blame  for 
firing  the  men's  blood,  and  the  result  most  dis- 
graceful fighting  with  no  object  in  view.  There  was 
three  fiddlers  and  two  at  the  flute,  most  of  them 
blind,  but  not  the  less  dangerous  on  that  account; 
and  they  kept  the  town  in  a  ferment,  even  playing 
the  country  folk  home  to  the  farms,  followed  by 
bands  of  townsfolk.    They  were  a  quarrelsome  set; 

235 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

the  ploughmen  and  others;  and  it  was  generally  ad" 
mitted  in  the  town  that  their  overbearing  behavior 
was  responsible  for  the  fights.  I  mind  them  being 
driven  out  of  the  square,  stones  flying  thick;  also 
some  stand-up  fights  with  sticks,  and  others  fair 
enough  with  fists.  The  first  fight  I  did  not  see. 
It  took  place  in  a  field.  At  first  it  was  only  between 
two  who  had  been  miscalling  one  another;  but  there 
was  many  looking  on,  and  when  the  town  man  was 
like  getting  the  worst  of  it  the  others  set  to,  and  a 
most  heathenish  fray  with  no  sense  in  it  ensued. 
One  man  had  his  arm  broken.  I  mind  Hobart  the 
bellman  going  about  ringing  his  bell  and  telling  all 
persons  to  get  within  doors;  but  little  attention 
was  paid  to  him,  it  being  notorious  that  Snecky  had 
had  a  fight  earlier  in  the  day  himself. 

When  James  was  fighting  in  the  field,  according 
to  his  own  account,  I  had  the  honor  of  dining  with 
the  electors  who  voted  for  the  Captain,  him  paying 
all  expenses.  It  was  a  lucky  accident  my  mother 
sending  me  to  the  townhouse,  where  the  dinner  came 
oflF,  to  try  to  get  my  father  home  at  a  decent  hour, 
me  having  a  remarkable  power  over  him  when  in 
liquor,  but  at  no  other  time.  They  were  very  jolly, 
however,  and  insisted  on  my  drinking  the  Captain's 
health  and  eating  more  than  was  safe.  My  father 
got  it  next  day  from  my  mother  for  this;  and  so 
would  I  myself,  but  it  was  several  days  before  I  left 
my  bed,  completely  knocked  up  as  I  was  with  the 
excitement  and  one  thing  or  another.  The  bonfire, 
which  was  built  to  celebrate  the  election  of  Mr, 
Scrimgour,  was  set  ablaze,  though  I  did  not  see  it, 
in  honor  of  the  election  of  the  Captain;  it  being 
thought  a  pity  to  lose  it,  as  no  doubt  it  would  have 
been.  That  is  about  all  I  remember  of  the  cele- 
brated election  of  '33  when  the  Reform  Bill  was 
passed. 


WET    DAYS    IN    THRUMS 

WET    DAYS    IN    THRUMS 

(From  "A  Window  in  Thrums'") 

IN  a  wet  day  the  rain  gathered  in  blobs  on  the 
road  that  passed  our  garden.  Then  it  crawled  into 
the  cart  tracks  until  the  road  was  streaked  with 
water.  Lastly,  the  water  gathered  in  heavy  yellow 
pools.  If  tlie  on-ding  still  continued,  clods  of  earth 
toppled  from  the  garden  dike  into  the  ditch. 

On  such  a  day,  when  even  the  dulseman  had  gone 
into  shelter,  and  the  women  scudded  by  with  their 
wrappers  over  their  heads,  came  Gavin  Birse  to  our 
door.  Gavin,  who  was  the  Glen  Quharitj  post,  was 
still  young,  but  had  never  been  quite  the  same  man 
since  some  amateurs  in  the  glen  ironed  his  back  for 
rheumatism.  I  thought  he  had  called  to  have  a  crack 
with  me.  He  sent  his  compliments  up  to  the  attic, 
however,  bj  Leeby,  and  would  I  come  and  be  a  wit- 
ness? 

Gavin  came  up  and  explained.  He  had  taken  off 
his  scarf  and  thrust  into  his  pocket,  lest  the  rain 
should  take  the  color  out  of  it.  His  boots  cheeped, 
and  his  shoulders  had  risen  to  his  ears.  He  stood 
steaming  before  my  fire. 

"If  it's  no'  ower  muckle  to  ask  ye,"  he  said,  "I 
would  like  ye  for  a  witness." 

"  A  witness !  But  for  what  do  rou  need  a  witness, 
Gavin?" 

"  I  want  ye,"  he  said,  "  to  come  wi'  me  to  Mag's, 
and  be  a  witness," 

Gavin  and  Mag  Birse  had  been  engaged  for  a 
year  or  more.  Mag  was  the  daughter  of  Janet 
Ogilvy,  wlio  was  best  remembered  as  the  body  that 
took  the  hill  (that  is,  wandered  about  it)  for  twelve 
hours  on  the  day  Mr.  Dishart,  the  Auld  Licht  min- 
ister, accepted  a  call  to  another  church. 

237 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Gavin,"  I  asked, 
**that  your  marriage  is  to  take  place  to-day?  " 

By  the  twist  of  his  mouth  I  saw  that  he  was  only 
deferring  a  smile. 

"  Far  f  rae  that,"  he  said. 

"  Ah,  then,  you  have  quarreled,  and  I  am  to  speak 
up  for  you?  " 

"  Na,  na,"  he  said,  "  I  dinna  want  ye  to  do  that 
above  all  things.  It  would  be  a  favor  if  ye  could 
gie  me  a  bad  character." 

This  beat  me,  and  I  dare  say,  my  face  showed  it. 

"I'm  no'  juist  what  ye  would  call  anxious  to 
marry  Mag  noo,"  said  Gavin,  without  a  tremor. 

I  told  him  to  go  on. 

"  There's  a  lassie  oot  at  Craigiebuckle,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  workin'  on  the  farm — Jeanie  Luke  by 
name.     Ye  may  hae  seen  her?  " 

"What  of  her?"  I  asked  severely. 

"  Weel,"  said  Gavin,  still  unabashed,  "  I'm  thinkin* 
fioo  'at  I  would  rather  hae  her." 

Then  he  stated  his  case  more  fully. 

"Ay,  I  thocht  I  liked  Mag  oncommon  till  I  saw 
Jeanie,  an'  I  like  her  fine  yet,  but  I  prefer  the  other 
ane.  That  state  o'  matters  canna  gang  on  forever, 
so  I  came  into  Thrums  the  day  to  settle  't  one  wy  or 
another." 

"  And  how,"  I  asked,  "  do  you  propose  going 
about  it?    It  is  a  somewhat  delicate  business." 

"  Ou,  I  see  nae  great  difficulty  in  't.  Til  speir  at 
Mag,  blunt  oot,  if  she  '11  let  me  aff.  Yes,  I'll  put  it 
to  her  plain." 

"  You're  sure  Jeanie  would  take  you?  " 

"Ay;   oh,  there's  nae  fear  o'  that." 

"But  if  Mag  keeps  you  to  your  bargain?" 

"  Weel,  in  that  case  there's  nae  harm  done." 

"You  are  in  a  great  hurry,  Gavin?" 

**  Ye  may  say  that ;  but  I  want  to  be  married.  The 
238 


WET    DAYS    IN    THRUMS 

wifie  I  lodge  wi'  canna  last  lang,  an'  I  would  like  to 
settle  doon  in  some  place." 

"  So  you  are  on  your  way  to  Mag's  now?  " 

"  Ay,  we'll  get  her  in  atween  tvval'  and  ane." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  why  do  you  want  me  to  go  with 
you?" 

"  I  want  ye  for  a  witness.  If  she  winna  let  mc 
afF,  weel  and  guid;  and  if  she  will,  it's  better  to  hae 
a  witness  in  case  slie  should  go  back  on  her  word." 

Gavin  gave  his  proposal  briskly,  and  as  coolly  as 
if  he  were  only  asking  me  to  go  fishing;  but  I  did 
not  accompany  him  to  Mags.  He  left  the  house  to 
look  for  another  witness,  and  about  an  hour  after- 
ward Jess  saw  him  pass  with  Tammas  Haggart. 
Tammas  cried  in  during  the  evening  to  tell  us  how 
the  mission  prospered. 

"  Mind  ye,"  said  Tammas,  a  drop  of  water  hang- 
ing to  the  point  of  his  nose,  "  I  disclaim  all  respon- 
sibility in  the  business.  I  ken  Mag  weel  for  a 
thrifty,  respectable  woman,  as  her  mither  was  afore 
her,  and  so  I  said  to  Gavin  when  he  came  to  speii 
me." 

"  Ay,  mony  a  pirn  has  'Lisbeth  filled  to  me,"  said 
Hendry,  settling  down  to  a  reminiscence. 

"  No  to  be  ower  hard  on  Gavin,"  continued  Tam- 
mas, forestalling  Hendry,  "  he  took  what  I  said  in 
guid  part;  but  aye  when  I  stopped  speakin'  to  draw 
breath,  he  says,  '  The  queistion  is,  will  ye  come  wi* 
me?  '     He  was  michty  made  up  in  's  mind." 

"  Weel,  ye  went  wi'  him,"  suggested  Jess,  who 
wanted  to  bring  Tammas  to  the  point. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  stone  breaker,  "  but  no  in  sic  a 
hurry  as  that." 

He  worked  his  mouth  round  and  round,  to  clear 
the  course,  as  it  were,  for  a  sarcasm. 

"  Fowk  often  say,"  he  continued,  "  'at  'am  quick 
beyond  the  ordinar'  in  seein'  the  humorous  side  o* 
things." 

239 


JAMES    MATTHEW    BARRIE 

Here  Tammas  paused,  and  looked  at  us. 

"  So  ye  are,  Tammas,'  said  Hendry.  "  Losh,  ye 
mind  hoo  ye  saw  the  humorous  side  o'  me  wearin'  a 
pair  o'  boots  'at  wisna  marrows !  No,  the  ane  had  a 
toe  piece  on,  an'  the  other  hadna." 

"Ye  juist  wore  them  sometimes  when  ye  was 
delvin',"  broke  in  Jess;  "ye  have  as  guid  a  pair  o' 
boots  as  ony  in  Thrums." 

"  Ay,  but  I  had  worn  them,"  said  Hendry,  "  at  odd 
times  for  mair  than  a  year,  an'  I  had  never  seen  the 
humorous  side  o'  them.  Weel,  as  fac  as  death" 
(here  he  addressed  me),  "Tammas  had  just  seen 
them  twa  or  three  times  when  he  saw  the  humorou£ 
side  o'  them.  Syne  I  saw  their  humorous  side,  too, 
but  no  till  Tammas  pointed  it  oot." 

"  That  was  naething,"  said  Tammas,  "  naething  ava 
to  some  things  I've  done." 

"  But  what  aboot  Mag?  "  said  Leeby. 

"We  wasna'  that  length,  was  we?"  said  Tammas. 

"Na,  we  was  speakin'  aboot  the  humorous  side. 
Ay,  wait  a  wee." 

"  Na,  I  didna  mention  the  humorous  side  for  nae- 
thing." 

He  paused  to  reflect.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  at  last, 
brightening  up,  "  I  was  sayin'  to  ye  hoo  quick  I  was 
to  see  the  humorous  side  o'  onything.  Ay,  then,  what 
made  me  say  that  was,  'at  in  a  clink  (flash)  I  sav/ 
the  humorous  side  o'  Gavin's  position." 

"  Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  admiringly,  "  and  what 
is  't?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  this,  there's  something  humorous  in 
speirin'  a  woman  to  let  ye  afi"  so  as  ye  can  be  mar- 
Tied  to  another  woman." 

"  I  daur  say  there  is,"  said  Hendry,  doubtfully. 

"Did  she  let  him  afi"? "  asked  Jess,  taking  the 
words  out  of  Leeby's  mouth. 

"  I'm  comin'  to  that,"  said  Tammas.  "  Gavin  pro- 
poses to  me  after  I  had  haen  my  laugh " 

240 


WET    DAYS    IN    THRUMS 

"Yes,"  cried  Hendry,  banging  the  table  with  his 
fist,  "  it  has  a  humorous  side.  Ye  're  richt  again, 
Tarnmas." 

"  I  wish  ye  wadna  blatter  (beat)  the  table,"  said 
Jess,  and  then  Tammas  proceeded — 

"  Gavin  wanted  me  to  tak'  paper  an'  ink  an'  a  pen 
wi'  me,  to  write  the  proceedings  doon,  but  I  said, 
*  Na,  na,  I'll  tak'  jiaper,  but  nae  ink  nor  nae  pen, 
for  thcr  '11  be  ink  an'  a  pen  there.'  That  was  what 
I  said." 

"  An'  did  she  let  liim  aflF?  "  asked  Leebj. 

"  Weel,"  said  Tammas,  "  aff  we  goes  to  Mag's 
hoose,  an'  sure  enough  Mag  was  in.  She  was  alane, 
too:  so  Gavin,  no  to  waste  time,  juist  sat  doon  for 
politeness'  sake,  an'  sune  rises  up  again;  an'  says 
he,  '  Marget  Lownie,  I  hae  a  solemn  question  to  speir 
at  ye,  namely  this,  Will  you,  Marget  Lownie,  let  me, 
Gavin  Birse,  aff  ?  '" 

"Mag  would  start  at  that?" 

"  Sal,  she  was  braw  an'  cool.  I  thocht  she  maun 
hae  got  wind  o'  his  intentions  aforehand,  for  she 
Juist  replies,  quiet-like,  "  Hoo  do  ye  want  aff, 
Gavin?" 

" '  Because,'  says  he,  like  a  book,  '  my  affections 
has  undergone  a  change.' 

" '  Ye  mean  Jean  Luke,'  says  Mag. 

" '  That  is  wha  I  mean,'  says  Gavin,  very  straitfor- 
rard. 

"  But  she  didna  let  him  aff,  did  she?  " 

"  Xa,  she  wasna  the  kind.  Says  she,  '  I  wonder  to 
hear  ye,  Gavin,  but  'am  no  goin'  to  agree  to  nae- 
thing  o'  that   sort.'" 

"  '  Think  it  ower,'  says  Gavin. 

" '  Xae,  my  mind's  made  up,'  said  she. 

" '  Ye  would  sune  get  anither  man,'  he  says  earn- 
estly. 

"'Hoo  do  I  ken  that?'  she  spiers,  rale  sensibly, 
I  thocht,  for  men's  no  sae  easy  to  get. 

241 


WET    DAYS    IN    THRUMS 


((  < 


An:  ?'i.re  o'  't,'  Gavin  saj's,  wi'  michty  conviction 
in  liis  voice,  '  for  ye  're  bonny  to  look  at,  an'  weel- 
kent  for  bein'  a  guid  body.' 

"  '  A  J,'  says  Mag,  '  I'm  glad  ye  like  me,  Gavin,  for 
ye  have  to  tak'  me.'  " 

"  That  put  a  clincher  on  him,"  interrupted  Hen- 
dry. 

"  He  vi^as  loth  to  gie  in,"  replied  Tammas,  "  so  he 
says,  '  Ye  think  'am  a  fine  character,  Marget  Lownie, 
but  ye  're  very  far  mista'en.  I  wouldna  wonder  but 
what  I  was  lossin'  my  place  some  o'  thae  days,  an' 
syne  whaur  would  ye  be? — Marget  Lownie,'  he  goes 
on,  '  'am  nat'rally  lazy  an'  fond  o'  the  drink.  As 
sure  as  ye  stand  there,  'am  a  reg'lar  deevil ! '  " 

"  That  was  strong  language,"  said  Hendry,  "but 
he  would  be  wantin'  to  fleg  (frighten)  her?  " 

"  Juist  so,  but  he  didna  manage  't ;  for  Mag  says, 
*We  a'  hae  oor  faults,  Gavin,  an'  deevil  or  no  dee- 
vil, ye  're  the  man  for  me ! " 

"  Gavin  thocht  a  bit,"  continued  Tammas,  "an' 
syne  he  tries  her  on  a  new  tack.  '  Marget  Lownie,' 
he  says,  'yer  father's  an  aul  man  noo,  an'  he  has 
naebody  but  yersel'  to  look  after  him.  I'm  thinkin' 
it  would  be  kind  o'  cruel  o'  me  to  tak'  ye  awa  frae 
him.' " 

"Mag  wouldna  be  ta'en  in  wi'  that;  she  wasna 
born  on  a  Sawbath,"  said  Jess,  using  one  of  her  fa- 
vorite sayings. 

"  She  wasna,"  answered  Tammas.  "  Says  she, 
*  Hae  nae  fear  on  that  score,  Gavin ;  my  father's  fine 
willin'  to  spare  me ! '  " 

"An'  that  ended  it?" 

"  Ay,  that  ended  it." 

"Did  ye  tak'  it  doon  in  writin'?'  asked  Hendry. 

"  There  was   nae   need,"   said   Tammas.     "  No,   I 
never  touched  paper.     When  I  saw  the  thing  was 
settled,  I  left  them  to  their  coortin'.    They're  to  tak' 
a  look  at  Snecky  Hobarts'  auld  hoose.    It's  to  let." 
245 


LORD    BEACONSFIELD 

Benjamin-  Disraeli,  Earl  of  Beaconsfield,  states- 
man and  novelist,  born  in  London,  in  1804;  died 
there  1881.  His  father,  Israel  Disraeli,  was  a  lover 
of  literature  and  a  writer  of  note.  Young  Disraeli 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two  wrote  "  Vivian  Grey."  It 
caused  a  great  sensation,  as  it  caricatured  broadly 
many  leading  men  of  the  day.  "  The  Young  Duke  " 
and  "  Contarini  Fleming "  added  to  the  author's 
fame.    The  latter  was  highly  praised  by  Goethe. 

LADY    CORISANDE 

ONE'S  life  changes  in  a  moment.  Half  a  month 
ago  Lothair,  \\ithout  an  acquainance,  was 
meditating  his  return  to  Oxford.  Now  he  seemed 
.0  know  everybody  who  was  anybody.  His  table  was 
overflowing  with  invitations  to  all  the  fine  houses  in 
town.  First  came  the  routs  and  the  balls;  then, 
when  he  had  been  presented  to  the  husbands,  came 
the  dinners.  His  kind  friends  the  Duchess  and  Ladjr 
St.  Jerome  were  the  fairies  who  had  worked  this 
sudden  scene  of  enchantment.  A  single  word  from 
them,  and  London  was  at  Lothair's  feet. 

He  liked  it  amazingly.  He  quite  forgot  the  con- 
clusion at  which  he  had  arrived  respecting  society  a 
year  ago,  drawn  from  his  vast  experience  of  the  sin- 
gle party  which  he  had  then  attended.  Feelings  are 
different  when  you  know  a  great  many  persons,  and 
every  person  is  trying  to  please  you;  above  all,  when 
there  are  individuals  whom  you  want  to  meet,  and 
whom,  if  you  do  not  meet,  you  become  restless. 

Town  was  beginning  to  blaze.  Broughams  whirled 
and  bright  barouches  glanced,  troops  of  social  o^'- 

243 


LORD    BEACONSFIELD 

airy  cantered  and  caracolled  in  morning  rides,  and 
the  bells  of  prancing  ponies,  lashed  by  delicate 
hands,  gingled  in  the  laughing  air.  There  were 
stoppages  in  Bond  Street,  which  seems  to  cap  the 
climax  of  civilization,  after  crowded  clubs  and 
swarming  parks. 

But  the  great  event  of  the  season  was  the  presen- 
tation of  Lady  Corisande.  Truly  our  bright  maiden 
of  Brentham  woke  and  found  herself  famous.  There 
are  families  whom  everybody  praises,  and  families 
who  are  treated  in  a  different  way.  Either  will  do; 
all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  first  succeed,  all 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  last  are  encouraged  in 
perverseness  by  the  prophetic  determination  of  so- 
ciety. Half  a  dozen  married  sisters,  who  were  the 
delight  and  ornament  of  their  circles,  in  the  case  of 
Lady  Corisande  were  good  precursors  of  popularity; 
but  the  world  would  not  be  content  with  that;  they 
credited  her  with  all  their  charms  and  winning 
qualities,  but  also  with  something  grander  and  be- 
yond comparison;  and  from  the  moment  her  fair 
cheek  was  sealed  by  the  gracious  approbation  of 
Majesty,  all  the  critics  of  the  Court  at  once  recog- 
nized her  as  the  cynosure  of  the  Empyrean. 

Monsignor  Catesby,  who  looked  after  Lothair, 
and  was  always  breakfasting  with  him  without  the 
necessity  of  an  invitation  (a  fascinating  man,  and 
who  talked  upon  all  subjects  except  High  Mass), 
knew  everything  that  took  place  at  Court  without 
being  present  there  himself.  He  led  the  conversation 
to  the  majestic  theme,  and  while  he  seemed  to  be 
busied  in  breaking  an  egg  with  delicate  precision, 
and  hardly  listening  to  the  frank  expression  of  opin- 
ions which  he  carelessly  encouraged,  obtained  a  not 
insufficient  share  of  Lothair's  views  and  impressions 
of  human  beings  and  affairs  in  general  during  the 
last  few  days,  which  had  witnessed  a  Levee  and  a 
Drawing-room. 

244 


LADY    CO«liSANDE 

"  Ah,  then  you  were  so  fortunate  as  to  know  the 
beauty  before  her  debut,"  said  the  Monsignore. 

"Intimately;  her  brother  is  my  friend.  I  was  at 
Brentham  last  sununer.  Delicious  place !  and  the 
most  agreeable  visit  I  ever  made  in  my  life,  at  least, 
one  of  the  most  agreeable.'* 

"  Ah !  ah !  "  said  the  JMonsignore.  "  Let  me  ring 
for  som.e  toast," 

On  the  night  of  the  Drawing-room,  a  great  ball 
i  was  given  at  Crecy  House  to  celebrate  the  entrance 
J  of  Corisande  into  the  world.  It  was  a  sumptuous 
i  festival.  The  palace,  resonant  with  fantastic  music^ 
\  blazed  amid  illumined  gardens  rich  with  summe* 
I  warmth. 

>  A  prince  of  the  blood  was  dancing  with  Lady 
Corisande.  Lothair  was  there,  vis-^-vis  with  Miss 
Arundel. 

"  I  delight  in  this  hall,"  she  said  to  Lothair ;  "  but 
how  superior  the  pictured  scene  to  the  reality ! " 

"What!   would  you  like,  then,  to  be  in  a  battle?" 

"  I  should  like  to  be  with  heroes,  wherever  they 
might  be.  What  a  fine  character  was  the  Black 
prince !  And  they  call  those  days  the  days  of  super- 
stition ! " 

The  silver  horns  sounded  a  brave  flourish.  Lothair 
had  to  advance  and  meet  Lady  Corisande.  Her  ap- 
proaching mien  was  full  of  grace  and  majesty,  but 
Lothair  thought  there  was  a  kind  expression  in  her 
glance,  which  seemed  to  remember  Brentham,  and 
that  he  was  her  brothers'  friend. 

A  little  later  in  the  evening  he  was  her  partner. 
He  could  not  refrain  from  congratulating  her  on 
the  beauty  and  the  success  of  the  festival. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  pleased,  and  I  am  glad  you 
think  it  successful;  but,  you  know,  I  am  no  judge, 
for  this  is  my  first  ball ! " 

"  Ah !  to  be  sure ;  and  yet  it  seems  impossible,"  he 
continued,  in  a  tone  of  murmuring  admiration. 

245 


LORD    BEACONSFIELD 

"  Oh !  I  have  been  at  little  dances  at  my  sisters' ; 
half  behind  the  door,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  smile. 
"But  to-night  I  am  present  at  a  scene  of  which  I 
have  only  read." 

"  And  how  do  you  like  balls  ?  "  said  Lothair. 

"  1  think  I  shall  like  them  very  much,"  said  Lady 
Corisande ;  "  but  to-night,  I  will  confess,  I  am  a  little 
nervous." 

"  You  do  not  look  so." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"Why?" 

"  Is  it  not  a  sign  of  weakness?  " 

"  Can  feeling  be  weakness  ?  " 

"  Feeling  without  sufficient  cause  is,  I  should 
think."  And  then,  and  in  a  tone  of  some  archness, 
she  said,  "  And  how  do  you  like  balls  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  like  them  amazingly,"  said  Lothair. 
"They  seem  to  me  to  have  every  quality  which  can 
render  an  entertainment  agreeable:  music,  light, 
flowers,  beautiful  faces,  graceful  forms,  and  occa- 
sionally charming  conversation." 

"  Yes ;  and  that  never  lingers,"  said  Lady  Cori- 
sande, "  for  see,  I  am  wanted." 

When  they  were  again  undisturbed,  Lothair  re- 
gretted the  absence  of  Bertram,  who  was  kept  at  the 
House. 

"  It  is  a  great  disappointment,"  said  Lady  Cori- 
sande; "  but  he  will  yet  arrive,  though  late.  I  should 
be  most  unhappy  though,  if  he  were  absent  from  his 
post  on  such  an  occasion.  I  am  sure  if  he  were 
here  I  could  not  dance." 

"You  are  a  most  ardent  politician,"  said  Lothair. 

"  Oh !  I  do  not  care  in  the  least  about  common 
politics,  parties  and  office,  and  all  that;  I  neither 
regard  nor  understand  them,"  replied  Lady  Cori- 
sande. "  But  when  wicked  men  try  to  destroy  the 
country,  then  I  like  my  family  to  be  in  the  front." 

As  the  destruction  of  the  country  meditated  this 

346 


LADY    CORISANDE 

night  by  wicked  men  was  some  change  in  the  status 
of  the  Church  of  England,  which  Monsignore 
Catesbj  in  the  morning  had  suggested  to  Lothair 
as  both  just  and  expedient  and  highly  conciliatory, 
Lothair  did  not  pursue  the  theme,  for  he  had  a 
greater  degree  of  tact  than  usually  falls  to  the  lot 
of  the  ingenuous. 

The  bright  moments  flew  on.  Suddenly  there  was 
a  nxysterious  silence  in  the  hall,  followed  by  a  kind 
of  suppressed  stir.  Every  one  seemed  to  be  speak- 
ing with  bated  breath,  or,  if  moving,  walking  on 
tiptoe.     It  was  the  supper  hour: 

"  Soft  hour  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart." 

Royalty,  followed  by  the  imperial  presence  of 
ambassadors,  and  escorted  by  a  group  of  dazzling 
duchess  and  paladins  of  high  degree,  was  ushered 
with  courteous  pomp  by  the  host  and  hostess  into  a 
choice  saloon,  hung  with  rose-colored  tapestry  and 
illumined  by  chandeliers  of  crystal,  where  they  were 
served  from  gold  plate.  But  the  thousand  less  fa- 
vored were  not  badly  off,  when  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  more  capacious  chambers,  into  which 
they  rushed  with  an  eagerness  hardly  in  keeping 
with  the  splendid  nonchalance  of  the  preceding 
hours. 

"  What  a  perfect  family,"  exclaimed  Hugo  Bohun, 
as  he  extracted  a  couple  of  fat  little  birds  from 
their  bed  of  aspic  jelly;  "  everj-thing  they  do  in  such 
perfect  taste.  How  safe  you  were  here  to  have 
ortolans  for  supper  !  " 

All  the  little  round  tables,  though  their  number 
was  infinite,  were  full.  Male  groups  hung  about; 
some  in  attendance  on  fair  dames,  some  foraging 
for  themselves,  some  thoughtful  and  more  patient 
and  awaiting  a  satisfactory  future.  Never  was  such 
an  elegant  clatter. 

"  I  wonder  where  Carisbrooke  is,"  said  Hugo  Bo- 

247 


LORD    BEACONSFIELD 

hun.  "They  say  he  is  wonderfully  taken  with  the 
beauteous   daughter   of  the  "house." 

"  I  will  back  the  Duke  of  Brecon  against  him,** 
said  one  of  his  companions.  "  He  raved  about  her 
at  White's  yesterday." 

"Hem J"  * 

"  The  end  is  not  so  near  as  all  that,"  said  a  third 
wassailer. 

"  I  do  not  know  that,"  said  Hugo  Bohun.  "  It  is 
a  family  that  marries  off  quickly.  If  a  fellow  is 
obliged  to  marry,  he  always  likes  to  marry  one  of 
them." 

"What  of  this  new  star?  "  said  his  friend,  and  he 
mentioned  Lothair. 

"O!  he  is  too  young;  not  launched.  Besides  he  is 
going  to  turn  Catholic,  and  I  doubt  whether  that 
would  do  in  that  quarter." 

"  But  he  has  a  greater  fortune  than  any  of  them.'* 

"  Immense !     A  man  I  know,  who  knows  another 

man "  and  then  he  began  a  long  statistical  stox-y 

about  Lothair's  resources. 

"Have  you  got  any  room  here,  Hugo  ? "  drawled 
out  Lord  St.  Aldegonde. 

"  Plenty,  and  here  is  my  chair." 

"On  no  account;  half  of  it  and  some  soup  will 
satisf)''  me." 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  been  with 
the  swells,"  said  Hugo  Bohun. 

"  That  does  not  exactly  suit  me,"  said  St.  Alde- 
gonde. "  I  was  ticketed  to  the  Duchess  of  Salop, 
but  I  got  a  first-rate  substitute  with  the  charm  of 
novelty  for  her  Grace,  and  sent  her  in  with  Lothair." 

St.  Aldegonde  was  the  heir  apparent  of  the  weal- 
thiest, if  not  the  most  ancient,  dukedom  in  the 
Kingdom.  He  was  spoiled,  but  he  knew  it.  Had  he 
been  an  ordinary  being,  he  would  have  merely  sub- 
sided into  selfishness  and  caprice,  but  having  good 
abilities  and  a  good  disposition,  he  was  eccentric, 

248 


LADY    CORISANDk; 

adventurous,  and  sentimental.  Notwithstanding  the 
apathy  which  had  been  engendered  by  premature  ex- 
perience, St.  Aldegonde  held  extreme  opinions,  espe- 
cially on  political  affairs,  being  a  republican  of  the 
reddest  dye.  He  was  opposed  to  all  privilege,  and 
indeed  to  all  orders  of  men,  except  dukes,  who  were  j 

a  necessity.     He  was  also  strongly  in  favor  of  the  ] 

equal  division  of  all  property,  except  land.  Liberty 
depended  on  land,  and  the  greater  the  land-owners, 
the  greater  the  liberty  of  a  country.  He  would  hold 
forth  on  this  topic  even  with  energy,  amazed  at  any 
one  differing  from  him;  "as  if  a  fellow  could  have 
too  much  land,"  he  would  urge  with  a  voice  and 
glance   which   defied   contradiction.     St.   Aldegonde  j 

had  married  for  love  and  he  loved  his  wife,  but  he 
was  strongly  in  favor  of  woman's  rights  and  their 
extremest  consequences.    It  was  thought  that  he  had  j 

originally  adopted  these  latter  views  with  the  ami-  | 

able  intention  of  piquing  Lady  St.  Aldegonde;  but  I 

if  so,  he  had  not  succeeded.     Beaming  with  bright-  1 

ness,  with  the  voice  and   airiness  of  a  bird,  and  a  • 

cloudless  temper,  Albertha  St.  Aldegonde  had,  from  \ 

the  first  hour  of  her  marriage,  concentrated  her  in-  ' 

telligence,  which  was  not  mean,  on  one  object;  and  1 

that  was  never  to  cross  her  husband  on  any  con- 
ceivable topic.  They  had  been  married  several  years, 
and  she  treated  him  as  a  darling  spoiled  child.  When 
he  cried  for  the  moon,  it  was  promised  him  immedi-  j 

ately;  however  irrational  his  proposition,  she  always  ] 

assented  to  it,  though  generally  by  tact  and  vigilance 
she  guided  him  in  the  right  direction.  Nevertheless, 
St.  Aldegonde  was  sometimes  in  scrapes;  but  then  he  j 

always  went  and  told  his  best  friend,  whose  greatest  ' 

delight  was  to  extricate  him  from  his  perplexities  ! 

and  embarrassments. 

******* 

It  was  agreed  that  after  breakfast  they  should  ^ 

go  and  see  Corisande's  garden.   And  a  party  did  go:         ^ 

349 


LORD    BEACONSFIELD 

all  the  Phoebus  family,  and  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Alde- 
gonde,  and  Lady  Corisande,  and  Bertram  and  Lo- 
thair. 

In  the  pleasure-grounds  of  Brentham  were  the  re- 
mains of  an  ancient  garden  of  the  ancient  house 
that  had  long  ago  been  pulled  down.  When  the 
modern  pleasure-grounds  were  planned  and  created, 
notwithstanding  the  protests  of  the  artists  in  land- 
scape, the  father  of  the  present  Duke  would  not 
allow  this  ancient  garden  to  be  entirely  destroyed, 
and  you  came  upon  its  quaint  appearance  in  the  dis- 
similar world  in  which  it  was  placed,  as  you  might 
in  some  festival  of  romantic  costume  upon  a  person 
habited  in  the  courtly  dress  of  the  last  century.  It 
was  formed  upon  a  gentle  southern  slope,  with 
turfen  terraces  walled  in  on  three  sides,  the  fourth 
consisting  of  arches  of  golden  yew.  The  Duke  had 
given  this  garden  to  Lady  Corisande,  in  order  that 
she  might  practise  her  theory,  that  flower-gardens 
should  be  sweet  and  luxuriant,  and  not  hard  and 
scentless  imitations  of  works  of  art.  Here,  in  their 
season,  flourished  abundantly  all  those  productions 
of  nature  which  are  now  banished  from  our  once  de- 
lighted senses:  huge  bushes  of  honeysuckle,  and 
bowers  of  sweet-pea  and  sweet-briar,  and  jessamine 
clustering  over  the  walls,  and  gillyflowers  scenting 
with  their  sweet  breath  the  ancient  bricks  from 
which  they  seemed  to  spring.  There  were  banks  of 
violets  which  the  southern  breeze  always  stirred,  and 
mignonette  filled  every  vacant  nook.  As  they  en- 
tered now,  it  seemed  a  blaze  of  roses  and  carnations, 
though  one  recognized  in  a  moment  the  presence  of 
the  lily,  the  heliotrope,  and  the  stock.  Some  white 
peacocks  were  basking  on  the  southern  wall,  and 
one  of  them,  as  their  visitors  entered,  moved  and 
displayed  its  plumage  with  scornful  pride.  The  bees 
were  busy  in  the  air,  but  their  homes  were  near,  and 
fou  might  watch  them  laboring  in  their  glassy  hives. 

250 


LADY    CORISANDE 

"Now,  is  not  Corisande  quite  right?"  said  Lord 
St.  Aldegoiide,  as  he  presented  Madame  Phcebus 
with  a  garland  of  woodbine,  with  which  she  said  she 
would  dress  her  head  at  dinner.  All  agreed  with 
him,  and  Bertram  and  Euphrosyne  adorned  each 
other  with  carnations,  and  Mr.  Phcebus  placed  a 
flower  on  the  uncovered  head  of  Lady  St.  Alde- 
gonde,  according  to  tlie  principles  of  high  art,  and 
they  sauntered  and  rambled  in  the  sweet  and  sunny 
air  amid  a  blaze  of  butterflies  and  the  ceaseless  hum 
of  bees. 

Bertram  and  Euphrosyne  had  disappeared,  and 
the  rest  were  lingering  about  the  hives  while  Mr. 
Phoebus  gave  them  a  lecture  on  the  apiary  and  its 
marvelous  life.  The  bees  understood  Mr.  Phoebus 
at  least  he  said  so,  and  thus  his  friends  had  consid- 
erable advantage  in  this  lesson  in  entomology.  Lady 
Corisande  and  Lothair  were  in  a  distant  corner  of 
the  garden,  and  she  was  explaining  to  him  her 
plans;  what  she  had  done  and  what  she  meant  to  do. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  garden  like  this  at  Muriel,"  said 
Lothair. 

"  You  could  easily  make  one." 

"If  you  helped  me." 

"  I  have  told  you  all  my  plans,"  said  Lady  Cori- 
jande. 

"Yes;  but  I  was  thinking  of  something  else  when 
you  spoke,"  said  Lothair. 

"  This  is  not  very  complimentary." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  complimentary,"  said  Lo- 
thair, "  if  compliments  mean  less  than  they  declare. 
I  was  not  thinking  of  your  garden,  but  of  you." 

"  Where  can  they  have  all  gone?  "  said  Lady  Co*^^ 
sande,  looking  round.     "  We  must  find  them." 

"And  leave  this  garden?"  said  Lothair.  "And  I 
without  a  flower,  the  only  one  without  a  flower?  J 
am  afraid  that  is  significant  of  my  lot." 

"  You  shall  choose  a  rose,"  said  Lady  Corisande- 

251 


LORD    BEACONSFIELD 

**  Nay;  the  charm  is  that  it  should  be  your  choice." 

But  choosing  the  rose  lost  more  time,  and  when 
Corisande  and  Lothair  reached  the  arches  of  golden 
jew,  there  were  no  friends  in  sight. 

"  I  think  I  hear  sounds  this  way,"  said  Lothair, 
and  he  led  his  companion  farther  from  home. 

"  I  see  no  one,"  said  Lady  Corisande,  distressed, 
and  when  they  had  advanced  a  little  way. 

"  We  are  sure  to  find  them  in  good  time,"  said 
Lothair.  "  Besides,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about 
the  garden  at  Muriel.  I  wanted  to  induce  you  to  go 
there  and  help  me  to  make  it.  Yes,"  he  added,  after 
some  hesitation,  "  on  this  spot,  I  believe  on  this  very 
spot,  I  asked  the  permission  of  your  mother  two 
years  ago  to  express  to  you  my  love.  She  thought 
me  a  boy,  and  she  treated  me  as  a  boy.  She  said  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  world,  and  both  our  characters 
were  unformed.  I  know  the  world  now.  I  have 
committed  many  mistakes,  doubtless  many  follies, 
have  formed  many  opinions,  and  have  changed  many 
opinions;  but  to  one  I  have  been  constant,  in  one  I 
am  unchanged,  and  that  is  my  adoring  love  for  you." 

She  turned  pale,  she  stopped,  then  gently  taking 
his  arm,  she  hid  her  face  in  his  breast. 


952 


VENERABLE    BEDE 

The  Venerabi.k  Bede,  an  English  monk,  born  in 
Northumberland  about  a.d.  6'i-2;  died  735.  He  was 
a  noted  scholar  and  was  acquainted  with  all  that  his 
day  could  teach.  His  great  work  was  "  The  Ecclesi- 
astical History  of  England." 


DESCRIPTION    OF    BRITAIN 

BRITAIN,  an  island  in  the  ocean,  formerly  called 
Albion,  is  situated  between  the  north  and  west, 
facing,  though  at  a  considerable  distance,  the  coasts 
of  Germany,  France,  and  Spain,  which  form  the 
greatest  part  of  Europe.  It  extends  800  miles  in 
length  toward  the  north,  and  is  200  miles  in  breadth, 
except  where  several  promontories  extend  further 
in  breadth,  by  which  its  compass  is  made  to  be  3,675 
miles.  To  the  south,  as  you  pass  along  the  nearest 
shore  of  the  Belgic  Gaul,  the  first  place  in  Britain 
which  opens  to  the  eye,  is  the  city  of  Rutubi  Por- 
tus,  by  the  English  corrupted  into  Reptacestir.  The 
distance  from  hence  across  the  sea  to  Gessoriacum, 
the  nearest  shore  of  the  Marini,  is  fifty  miles,  or  as 
some  writers  say,  450  furlings.  On  the  back  of  the 
island,  where  it  opens  upon  the  boundless  ocean,  it 
has  the  islands  called  Orcades.  Britain  excels  for 
grain  and  trees,  and  is  well  adapted  for  feeding 
cattle  and  beasts  of  burden.  It  also  produces  vines 
in  some  places,  and  has  plenty  of  land  and  water- 
fowls of  several  sorts;  it  is  remarkable  also  for 
rivers  abounding  in  fish,  and  plentiful  springs.  It 
has  the  greatest  plenty  of  salmon  and  eels;  seals 
are    also    frequently    taken,    and    dolphins,    as    also 

253 


VENERABLE    BEDE 

whales;   besides   many   sorts    of   shellfish,   sudi   as 
toussels,  in  which  are  often  found  excellent  pearls  ; 
of   all  colors,   red,  purple,   violet,   and   green,  but 
mostly  white.     There  is  also  a  great  abundance  of 
cockles,  of  which  the  scarlet  dye  is  made;  a  most  j 
beautiful  color,   which  never   fades   with   the   heat 
of  the  sun,  or  the  washing  of  the  rain ;  but  the  older  ' 
it  is,  the  more  beautiful  it  becomes.     It  has  both  i 
salt   and   hot   springs,   and   from  them   flow   rivers  • 
which   furnish  hot  baths,  proper  for  all  ages  and  j 
sexes,    and    arranged   accordingly.      For   water,   as 
St.  Basil  says,  receives  the  heating  quality  when  it  i 
runs   along  certain  metals,  and  becomes   not  only 
hot  but  scalding.     Britain  has  also  many  veins  of 
metal,  as  copper,  iron,  lead,  and  silver;   it  has  much  i 
and  excellent  jet,  which  is  black  and  sparkling,  glit-  ' 
tering  at  the   fire,   and  when  heated,   drives   away 
serpents;   being  warmed  with  rubbing,  it  holds  fast  i 
whatever  is  applied  to  it,  like  amber.     The  island  I 
was   formerly  embellished  with  twenty-eight  noble  : 
cities,  besides  innumerable  castles,  which  were   all  '] 
strongly  secured  with  walls,  towers,  gates,  and  locks. 
And,  from  its  lying  almost  under  the  North  Pole, 
the  nights  are  light  in  summer,  so  at  midnight  the  I 
beholders   are  often  in  doubt  whether  the  evening  j 
twilight  still  continues,  or  that  the  morning  is  com-  | 
ing  on;  for  the  sun,  in  the  night,  returns  under  the  j 
earth,   through   the    northern   regions    at   no    great  ! 
distance  from  them.     For  this  reason  the  days  are  ! 
of  a  great  length  in  summer,  as,  on  the  contrary,  the  j 
nights  are  in  winter,  for  the  sun  then  withdraws  into  ; 
the  southern  parts,  so  that  the  nights  are  eighteeen  i 
hours    long.      Thus   the    nights    are   extraordinarily  \ 
short  in  summer,  and  the  days  in  winter,  that  is,  of 
only  six  equinoctial  hours.     Whereas   in   Armenia, 
Macedonia,  Italy,  and  other  countries  of  the  same  i 
latitude,  the  longest  day  or  night  extends  but  to  j 
fifteen  hours,  and  the  shortest  to  nine 

254, 


DESCRIPTION    OF    BRITAIN 

This  island  at  present,  following  the  number  of 
the  books  in  which  the  Divine  law  was  written,  con- 
tains five  nations,  the  English,  Britons,  Scots,  Picts 
and  Latins,  each  in  its  own  peculiar  dialect  cultivat- 
ing the  sublime  study  of  Divine  truth.  The  Latin 
tongue  is,  by  the  study  of  the  Scriptures,  become 
common  to  all  the  rest.  At  first  the  island  had  no 
other  inhabitants  but  the  Britons,  from  whom  it 
derived  its  name,  and  who  coming  over  into  Britain, 
as  is  reported,  from  Armorica,  possessed  themselves 
^  of  the  southern  parts  thereof.  When  they,  begin- 
'  ning  at  the  south,  had  made  themselves  masters  of 
;  the  greatest  part  of  the  island,  it  happened,  that 
;  the  nation  of  the  Picts  from  Scythia,  as  is  reported, 
putting  to  sea  in  a  few  long  ships,  were  driven  bj 
the  winds  beyond  the  shores  of  Britain  and  arrived 
on  the  northern  coasts  of  Ireland,  where,  finding  the 
nation  of  the  Scots,  they  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
settle  among  them,  but  could  not  succeed  in  ob- 
taining their  request.  Ireland  is  the  greater  island 
next  to  Britain,  and  lies  to  the  west  of  it;  but  as  it 
is  shorter  than  Britain  to  the  north,  so,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  runs  out  far  beyond  it  to  the  south,  oppo- 
site to  the  northern  parts  of  Spain,  though  a  spa- 
cious sea  lies  between  them.  The  Picts,  as  has  been 
said,  arriving  in  this  island  by  sea,  desired  to  have  a 
place  granted  them  in  which  they  might  settle.  The 
Scots  answered  that  the  island  could  not  contain 
them  both ;  but  "  We  can  give  you  good  advice,"  said 
ther,  "what  to  do;  we  know  there  is  another  island, 
not  far  from  ours,  to  the  eastward,  which  we  often 
see  at  a  distance  when  the  days  are  clear.  If  you 
will  go  thither,  you  will  obtain  settlement;  or,  if 
they  should  oppose  you,  you  shall  have  our  assist- 
ance." The  Picts,  accordingly,  sailing  over  into 
Britain,  began  to  inhabit  the  northern  parts  thereof, 
for  the  Britons  were  possessed  of  the  southern. 
Now  the  Picts  had  no  wives,  and  asked  them  of  the 

255 


VENERABLE    BEDE 

Scots;  who  would  not  consent  to  grant  them  under 
an  J  other  terms,  than  that  when  anj  difficulty  should 
arise,  they  should  choose  a  king  from  the  female 
royal  race  rather  than  from  the  male:  which  cus- 
tom as  is  well  known,  is  observed  among  the  Picts 
to  this  day.  In  process  of  time,  Britain,  besides  the 
Britons  and  the  Picts,  received  a  third  nation,  the 
Scots,  who,  migrating  from  Ireland  under  their 
leader,  Renda,  either  by  fair  means,  or  by  force  of 
arms,  secured  to  themselves  some  settlements  among 
the  Picts  which  they  still  possess.  From  the  name 
of  their  commander,  they  are  to  this  day  called 
Dalrendians;  for,  in  their  language,  Dal  signifies  a 
part. 

Ireland,  in  breadth,  and  for  wholesomeness  and 
serenity  of  climate,  far  surpasses  Britain;  for  the 
snow  scarcely  ever  lies  there  above  three  days:  no 
man  makes  hay  in  the  summer  for  winter's  provision, 
or  builds  stables  for  his  beasts  of  burden.  No  rep- 
tiles are  found  there,  and  no  snakes  can  live  there; 
for  though  often  carried  thither  out  of  Britain,  as 
soon  as  the  ship  comes  near  the  shore,  and  the  scent 
of  the  air  reaches  them,  they  die.  On  the  contrary, 
almost  all  things  in  the  island  are  good  against 
poison.  In  short,  we  have  known  that  when  some 
persons  have  been  bitten  by  serpents,  the  scrapings 
of  leaves  of  books  that  were  brought  out  of  Ireland, 
being  put  into  water,  and  given  them  to  drink,  have 
immediately  expelled  the  spreading  poison,  and  as- 
suaged the  swelling.  The  island  abounds  in  milk 
and  honey,  nor  is  there  any  want  of  vines,  fish,  or 
fowl;  and  it  is  remarkable  for  deer  and  goats.  It 
is  properly  the  country  of  the  Scots,  who,  migrat- 
ing from  thence,  as  has  been  said,  added  a  third 
nation  in  Britain  to  the  Britons  and  the  Picts.  There 
is  a  very  large  gulf  of  the  sea,  which  formerly  di- 
vided the  nation  of  the  Picts  from  the  Britons, 
which  gulf  runs  from  the  west  very  far  into  the 

256 


DESCRIPTION    OF    BRITAIN 

land,  where,  to  this  day,  stands  the  strong  citj  of 
the  Britons,  called  Aleluith.  The  Scots,  arriving 
on  the  north  side  of  this  bar,  settled  themselves 
there. 

EGBERT,  THE  PRIEST 

At  that  time  the  venerable  servant  of  Christ,  and 
priest,  Egbert,  whom  I  cannot  name  but  with  the 
greatest  respect,  and  who,  as  was  said  before,  lived 
a  stranger  in  Ireland  to  obtain  hereafter  a  residence 
in  heaven,  proposed  to  himself  to  do  good  to  many, 
by  taking  upon  him  the  apostolical  work,  and  preach- 
ing the  word  of  God  to  some  of  those  nations  that 
had  not  yet  heard  it;  many  of  which  nations  he  knew 
there  were  in  Germany,  from  whom  the  Angles,  or 
Saxons,  who  now  inhabit  Britain,  are  known  to  have 
derived  their  origin;  for  which  reason  they  are  still 
corruptly  called  Garmans  by  the  neighboring  na- 
tions of  the  Britons.  Such  are  the  Prisons,  the  Ru- 
gins,  the  Danes,  the  Huns,  the  Ancient  Saxons,  and 
the  Boructuars  (or  Bructers).  There  are  also  in 
the  same  parts  many  other  nations  still  following 
pagan  rites,  to  whom  the  aforesaid  soldier  of  Christ 
designed  to  repair,  sailing  round  Britain,  and  to 
try  whether  he  could  deliver  any  of  them  from  Sa- 
tan, and  bring  them  over  to  Christ;  or  if  this  could 
not  be  done,  to  go  to  Rome,  to  see  and  adore  the 
hallowed  thresholds  of  the  holy  apostles  and  mar- 
tyrs of  Christ. 

However,  Wictbert,  one  of  his  companions,  being 
famous  for  his  contempt  of  the  world  and  for  his 
knowledge,  for  he  had  lived  many  years  a  stranger 
in  Ireland,  living  an  eremitical  life  in  great  purity, 
went  abroad,  and  arriving  in  Frisland,  preached  the 
word  of  salvation  for  the  space  of  two  years  suc- 
cessively to  that  nation  and  to  its  king,  Rathbed ;  but 
reaped  no  fruit  of  all  his  great  labor  among  his 
barbarous  auditors.     Returning  then  to  the  beloved 

257 


VENERABLE    BEDE 


place  of  his  peregrination,  he  gave  himself  up  to 
our  Lord  in  his  wonted  repose,  and  since  he  could 
not  be  profitable  to  strangers  by  teaching  them  the 
faith,  he  took  care  to  be  the  more  useful  to  his  own 
people  bj  the  example  of  his  virtue. 


258 


p 


PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER 

Pierre  Jeax  de  Beraxger,  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar of  French  poets,  born  in  1780,  in  Paris;  died 
there  in  1857.  He  composed  many  stirring  songs 
during  the  Napoleonic  period,  but  he  did  not  begin 
to  write  them  down  until  1812.  While  an  enthusi- 
astic republican,  he  was  at  the  same  time  a  most 
devoted  follower  of  Napoleon,  a  combination  thai 
endeared  him  to  the  populace.  He  runs  the  whole 
scale  in  his  work,  from  some  couplets  sparkling  with 
wit  to  powerful  pieces  that  could  be  used  as  liter- 
ary weapons  by  the  faction  with  which  he  allied 
himself. 

LISETTE    IN    ATTIC    CELL 

OIT  was  here  that   Love  his  gifts  bestowed 
^  On  youth's  wild  age. 

Gladly  once  more  I  seek  my  youth's  abode. 

In  pilgrimage ! 
Here  my  young  mistress  with  her  poet  dared 

Reckless  to  dwell; 
She  was  sixteen,  I  twenty,  and  we  shared 
This  attic  cell. 

Yes,  'twas  a  garret,  be  it  known  to  all. 

Here  was  Love's  shrine; 
Here  read,  in  charcoal  traced  along  the  wall. 

The  unfinished  line. 
Here  was  the  board  where  kindred  hearts  would 
blend. 

The  Jew  can  tell 
How  oft  I  pawned  my  watch  to  feast  a  friend 

In  attic  cell! 

9^9 


PIERRE    JEAN    DE    BERANGER 

O,  my  Lisette's  fair  form  could  I  recall 

With  fairy  wand ! 
There  she  would  blind  the  window  with  her  shawl, 

Bashful,  yet  fond! 
What  though   from  whom  she  got  her  dress  I'vfe 
since 

Learned  but  too  well? 
Still,  in  those  days  I  envied  not  a  prince 

In  attic  cell. 


Here  the  glad  tidings  on  our  banquet  burst, 

'Mid  the  bright  bowls. 
Yes,  it  was  here  Marengo's  triumph  first 

Kindled  our  souls  !  i 

Bronze    cannon    roared;    France,    with    redoubled 
might,  i 

Felt   her   heart   swell!  \ 

Proudly  we  drank  our  Consul's  health  that  night    ' 

In    attic    cell. 


Dreams  of  my  youthful  days !    I'd  freely  give. 

Ere  my  life's  close. 
All  the  dull  days  I'm  destined  yet  to  live. 

For  one  of  those! 
Where  shall  I  now  find  raptures  that  were  felt, 

Joys  that  befell. 
And  hopes  that  dawned  at  twenty,  when  I  dwelt 

In   attic   cell! 


THE    OLD    VAGABOND 

(Translation  in  Tait's  Magazine) 

HERE  in  the  ditch  my  bones  I'll  lay; 
Weak,  wearied,  old,  the  world  I'll  leave. 
^'  He's  drunk,"  the  passing  crowd  will  sayj 
'Tis  well,  for  none  will  need  to  griev«. 


THE    OLD    VAGABOND 

Some  turn  tlieir  scornful  heads  away. 
Some  fling  an  alms  in  passing  by; 
Haste — 'tis  the  village  holiday, 

The  aged  beggar  needs  no  help  to  die. 

Yes!  here,  alone,  of  sheer  old  age 

I  die;   for  hunger  slays  me  not  at  all. 
I   hoped   my  misery's   closing  page 

To    fold    within    some    hospital; 
But  crowded  thick  is  each  retreat. 

Such  numbers  now  in  misery  lie; 

Alas;  my  cradle  was  the  street! 
As  he  was  born  the  aged  wretch  must  die. 


In  youth,  of  workmen  o'er  and  o'er, 

I've  asked,  "  Instruct  me  in  your  trade." 

"  Begone !  our  business  is  not  more 

Than  keeps  ourselves;  go,  beg,"  they  said— 

Ye  rich,  who  bade  me  toil  for  bread. 
Of  bones  your  tables  gave  me  store, 
Your  straw  has  often  made  my  bed: — 

In  death  I  lay  no  curses  at  your  door. 

Thus  poor,  I  might  have  turned  to  theft; 

No ! — better  still   for  alms    co  pray ! 
At  most,  I've  plucked  some  apples  left 

To  ripen  near  the  public  way. 
Yet  weeks  and  weeks  in  dungeons  laid. 

In  the  King's  name,  they  let  me  pine; 

Tliey  stole  the  only  wealth  I  had: 
Though  poor   and  old,  the  sun   at  least   was  mine, 

WTiat  country  has  the  poor  to  claim? 

What  boots  to  me  your  corn  and  wine. 
Your  busy  toil,  your  vaunted  fame, 

The  Senate  where  your  speakers  shine? 

?6j' 


PIERRE    JEAN    DE    BERANGER 

Once  when  your  homes  by  war  o'er  swept, 
Saw  strangers  battling  on  your  land. 
Like   any   paltry    fool   I   wept, 

The  aged  fool  was  nourished  by  their  hand. 

Mankind !  why  trod  you  now  the  worm, 

The   noxious   thing  beneath   your   heel? 
Ah !  had  you  taught  me  to  perform 

Due  labor  for  the  common  weal! 
Then  sheltered    from  the  adverse  wind, 

The  worm  and  ant  had  xime  to  grow; 

Aye,  then  I  might  have  loved  my  kind  5 
The  aged  beggar  dies  your  bitter  foe. 


262 


WALTER    BESANT 

Walter  Besaxt,  novelist,  born  at  Portsmouth, 
England,  1838;  died  1901.  He  intended  to  become 
a  clergyman  and  was  educated  at  Cambridge  Uni- 
versity. He  became  professor  in  Royal  College, 
Mauritius,  but  returned  home  to  take  up  a  literary 
career.  He  was  knighted  in  1895.  In  addition  to 
producing  numerous  stories  he  wrote  constantly  for 
a  large  number  of  magazines.  Among  his  best  nov- 
els are  "  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men,"  "  Ar- 
morel  of  Lyonesse,"  and  "  Beyond  the  Dreams  of 
Avarice." 


I 


THE    CHILD    OF    SAMSON 

(Harper  &  Bros.,  Publishers) 

T  was  the  evening  of  a  fine  September  day. 
Through  the  square  window,  built  out  so  as  to 
form  another  room  almost  as  large  as  that  which' 
had  been  thus  enlarged,  the  autumn  sun,  now  fast 
declining  to  the  west,  poured  in  warm  and  strong, 
but  not  too  warm  or  strong  for  the  girl  on  whose 
head  it  fell  as  she  sat  leaning  back  in  the  low  chair, 
her  face  turned  toward  the  window.  The  sun  of 
Scilly  is  never  too  fierce  or  too  burning  in  summer, 
nor  in  winter  does  it  ever  lose  its  force;  in  July, 
when  the  people  of  the  adjacent  islands  of  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland  venture  not  forth  into  the  glare 
of  the  sun,  here  the  soft  sea  mists  and  the  strong  sea 
air  temper  the  heat;  and  in  December  the  sun  still 
shines  with  a  lingering  warmth,  as  if  he  loved  the 
place.  This  girl  lived  in  the  sunshine  all  the  year 
round:  rowed  in  it;  lay  in  it;  basked  in  i\,  bare- 
headed, summer  and  winter;  in  the  winter  she  would 

263 


WALTER    BESANT 

sit  sheltered  from  the  wind  in  some  warm 
corner  of  the  rocks;  in  summer  she  would  lie  on  the 
hillside  or  stand  upon  the  high  headlands  of  the 
sea-beat  crags  while  the  breezes,  which  in  th^  Land 
of  Lyonesse  do  never  cease,  played  with  her  long 
tresses  and  kept  her  soft  cheek  cool. 

The  window  was  wide  open  on  all  three  sides;  the 
girl  had  been  doing  some  kind  of  work,  but  it  had 
dropped  from  her  hands,  and  now  lay  unregarded  on 
the  floor;  she  was  gazing  upon  the  scene  before  her, 
but  with  the  accustomed  eyes  which  looked  out 
upon  it  every  day.  A  girl  who  has  such  a  picture 
continually  before  her  all  day  long,  never  tires  of 
it,  though  she  may  not  be  always  consciously  con- 
sidering it  and  praising  it.  The  stranger,  for  his 
part,  cannot  choose  but  cry  aloud  for  admiration; 
but  the  native,  who  knows  it  as  no  stranger  can,  is 
silent.  The  house,  half-way  up  the  low  hill,  looked 
out  upon  the  south — to  be  exact;  its  aspect  was  S.W. 
by  S. — so  that  from  this  window  the  girl  saw  always, 
stretched  out  at  her  feet,  the  ocean,  now  glowing  in 
the  golden  sunshine  of  September.  Had  she  been 
tall  enough  she  might  even  have  seen  the  coast  of 
South  America,  the  nearest  land  in  the  far  distance. 
Looking  S.W.  that  is,  she  would  have  seen  the  broad 
mouth  of  Oroonooque  and  the  shores  of  El  Dorado. 
This  broad  seascape  was  broken  exactly  in  the  middle 
by  the  Bishop's  Rock  and  its  stately  light-house  ris- 
ing tall  and  straight  out  of  the  water;  on  the  left 
hand  the  low  hill  of  Annet  shut  out  the  sea;  and  on 
the  right  Great  Minalto,  rugged  and  black,  the  white 
foam  always  playing  round  its  foot  or  flying  over  its 
great  black  northern  headland,  bounded  and  framed 
the  picture.  Almost  in  the  middle  of  the  water,  not 
more  than  two  miles  distant,  a  sailing  ship,  all  sails 
set,  made  swift  way,  bound  outward  one  knows  not 
whither.  Lovely  at  all  times  is  a  ship  in  full  sail, 
but  doubly  lovely  when  she  is  seen  from  afar,  sailing 

26f 


THE    CHILD    OF    SAMSON 

on  a  smooth  sea,  under  a  cloudless  sky,  the  sun  of 
afternoon  lighting  up  her  white  sails.  No  other 
ships  were  in  sight;  there  was  not  even  the  long  line 
of  smoke  which  proclaims  the  steamer  below  the 
horizon;  there  was  not  even  a  Penzance  fishing-boat 
tacking  slowly  homeward  with  brown  sails  and  its 
Two  masts:  in  this  direction  there  was  no  other  sign 
of  man. 

The  girl,  I  say,  saw  this  sight  every  day;  she  never 
tired  of  it,  partly  because  no  one  ever  tires  of  the 
place  in  which  he  was  born  and  has  lived — not  even 
an  Arab  of  the  Great  Sandy  Desert;  partly  because 
the  sea,  which  has  been  called,  by  unobservant  poets, 
unchanging,  does,  in  fact,  change — face,  color,  mood, 
even  shape — every  day,  and  is  never  the  same,  except, 
perhaps,  when  the  east  Mind  of  March  covers  the  sky 
with  a  monotony  of  gray  and  takes  the  color  out  of 
the  face  of  ocean  as  it  takes  the  color  from  the 
granite  rocks,  last  year's  brown  and  yellow  fern,  and 
the  purple  heath.  To  this  girl,  who  li%ed  with  the 
sea  around  her,  it  always  form.ed  a  setting,  a  back- 
ground, a  frame  for  her  thoughts  and  dreams. 
Wherever  she  went,  whatever  she  said  or  sung,  or 
thought  or  did,  there  was  always  in  her  ears  the 
lapping  or  the  lashing  of  the  waves;  always  before 
her  eyes  was  the  white  surge  flying  over  the  rocks; 
always  the  tumbling  waves.  But  as  for  what  she 
actually  thought,  or  what  she  dreamed,  seeing  how 
ignorant  of  the  world  she  was,  and  how  innocent  and 
how  young,  and  as  for  what  was  passing  in  her  mind 
this  afternoon  as  she  sat  at  the  window,  I  know  not. 
On  the  first  consideration  of  the  thing,  one  would  be 
inclined  to  ask  how,  without  knowledge,  can  a  girl 
think  or  imagine  or  dream  anything?  On  further 
thought,  one  understands  that  knowledge  has  very 
little  to  do  with  dreams  or  fancies.  Yet,  with  or 
without  knowledge,  no  poet,  sacred  bard,  or  prophet 
has  ever  been  able  to  divine  the  thoughts  of  a  girl 

2fi5 


WALTER    BESANT 

or  to  interpret  them,  or  even  to  set  them  down,  in 
consecutive  language.  I  suppose  they  are  not,  in 
truth,  thoughts.  Thought  implies  reasoning,  and  the 
connection  of  facts,  and  the  experience  of  life  as  far 
as  it  has  gone.  A  young  maiden's  mind  is  full  of 
dimly  seen  shadows  and  pallid  ghosts  which  flit 
across  the  brain  and  disappear.  These  shadows  have 
the  semblance  of  shape,  but  it  is  dim  and  uncertain; 
they  have  the  pretense  of  color,  but  it  changes  every 
moment;  if  they  seem  to  show  a  face,  it  vanishes 
immediately  and  is  forgotten.  Yet  these  shadows 
smile  upon  the  young  with  kindly  eyes;  they  beckon 
with  their  fingers,  and  point  to  where,  low  down  on 
the  horizon,  with  cloudy  outline,  lies  the  Purple  Isl- 
and— to  such  a  girl  as  this  the  future  is  always  a 
small  island  girt  by  the  sea,  far  oflF  and  lonely.  The 
shadows  whisper  to  her;  they  sing  to  her;  but  no  girl 
has  ever  yet  told  us — even  if  she  understands — what 
it  is  they  tell  her. 

She  had  been  lying  there,  quiet  and  motionless, 
for  an  hour  or  more,  ever  since  the  tea-things  had 
been  taken  away — at  Holy  Hill  they  have  tea  at 
half  past  four.  The  ancient  lady  who  was  in  the 
room  with  her  had  fallen  back  again  into  the  slumber 
which  held  her  nearly  all  day  long  as  well  as  all  the 
night.  The  house  seemed  thoroughly  wrapped  and 
lapped  in  the  softest  peace  and  stillness;  and  in  one 
corner  a  high  clock,  wooden  cased,  swung  its  brass 
pendulum  behind  a  pane  of  glass  with  solemn  and 
sonorous  chronicle  of  the  moments,  so  that  they 
seemed  to  march  rather  than  to  fly.  A  clock  ought 
not  to  tick  as  if  Father  Time  were  hurried  and 
driven  along  without  dignity  by  a  scourge.  This 
clock,  for  one,  was  not  in  a  hurry.  Its  tick  showed 
that  Time  rests  not — but  hastens  not.  There  is  ad- 
monition in  such  a  clock.  When  it  has  no  one  to 
admonish  but  a  girl  whose  work  depends  on  her 
own  sweet  will,  its  voice  might  seem  thrown  awayj 

266 


THE    CHILD    OF    SAMSON 

yet  one  never  knows  the  worth  of  an  admonition, 
besides,  the  clock  suited  the  place  and  the  room. 
Where  should  time  march,  with  solemn  step  and 
slow,  if  not  on  the  quiet  island  of  Samson,  in  the 
Archipelago  of  Scilly?  On  its  face  was  written  the 
name  of  its  nuiker,  plain  for  all  the  world  to  see — • 
"Peter  Trevellick,  Penzance,  a.  d.  1741." 

The  room  was  not  ceiled,  but  showed  the  dark 
joists  and  beams  above,  once  painted,  but  a  long 
time  ago.  The  walls  were  wainscoted  and  painted 
drab,  after  an  old  fashion  now  gone  out;  within 
the  panels  hung  colored  prints,  which  must  have  been 
there  since  the  beginning  of  this  century.  They 
represented  rural  subjects — the  farmer  sitting  be- 
fore a  sirloin  of  beef,  while  his  wife,  a  cheerful 
njTnph,  brought  him  Brown  George,  foaming  with 
her  best  home-brewed;  the  children  hung  about  his 
knees  expectant  of  morsels.  Or  the  rustic  bade  fare- 
well to  his  sweetheart,  the  recruiting-sergeant  wait- 
ing for  him,  and  the  villagers,  to  a  woman,  bathed 
in  tears.  There  were  half  a  dozen  of  those  composi- 
tions simply  colored.  I  believe  they  are  now  worth 
much  money.  But  there  were  many  other  things 
in  this  room  worth  money.  Opposite  the  fire-place 
stood  a  cabinet  of  carved  oak,  black  with  age,  pre- 
cious beyond  price.  Behind  its  glass  windows  one 
could  see  a  collection  of  things  once  strange  and 
rare — things  which  used  to  be  brought  home  by 
sailors  long  before  steamers  plowed  every  ocean,  and 
globe-trotters  trotted  over  every  land.  There  were 
wonderful  things  in  coral,  white  and  red  and  pink; 
Venus's  fingers  from  the  Philippines;  fans  from  the 
Seychelles,  stuffed  birds  of  wondrous  hue,  daggers 
and  knives,  carven  tomahawks,  ivory  toys,  and  many 
of  her  wonders  from  the  far  East  and  fabulous 
Cathay.  Beside  the  cabinet  was  a  wooden  desk, 
carved  in  mahogany,  with  a  date  of  1645,  said  tt> 
have  been  brought  to  the  islands  by  one  of  the  RoyaJl 

£67 


WALTER    BESANT 

1st  prisoners  whom  Cromwell  hanged  upon  the 
highest  cairn  of  Hangman's  Island.  There  was  no 
escaping  Cromwell — not  even  in  Scilly  any  more 
than  in  Jamaica.  In  one  corner  was  a  cupboard, 
the  door  standing  open.  No  collector  ever  came  here 
to  gaze  upon  the  treasures  unspeakable  of  cups  and 
saucers,  plates  and  punchbowls.  On  the  mantel- 
shelf were  brass  candlesticks  and  silver  candlesticks, 
side  by  side  with  "  ornaments  "  of  china,  pink  and 
gild,  belonging  to  the  artistic  reign  of  good  King 
George  the  Fourth.  On  the  hearth-rug  before  the 
fire,  which  was  always  burning  in  this  room,  all  the 
year  round,  lay  an  old  dog  sleeping. 

Everybody  knows  the  feeling  of  a  room  or  a  house 
belonging  to  the  old.  Even  if  the  windows  are  kept 
open,  the  air  is  always  close.  Rest,  a  gentle,  elderly 
angel,  sits  in  the  least  frequented  room  with  folded 
wings.  Sleep  is  always  coming  to  the  doors  at  all 
hours:  for  the  sake  of  Rest  and  Sleep  the  house 
must  be  kept  very  quiet;  nobody  must  ever  laugh 
in  the  house,  there  is  none  of  the  litter  that  children 
make,  nothing  is  out  of  its  place,  nothing  is  dis- 
turbed; the  furniture  is  old-fashioned  and  formal, 
the  curtains  are  old  and  faded,  the  carpets  are  old, 
faded,  and  worn:  it  is  always  evening;  everything 
belonging  to  the  house  has  done  its  work; all  together, 
like  the  tenant,  are  sitting  still — solemn,  hushed,  at 
rest,  waiting  for  the  approaching  end. 

The  only  young  thing  at  Holy  Hill  was  the  girl  at 
the  window.  Everything  else  was  old — the  servants, 
the  farm  laborers,  the  house,  and  the  furniture.  In 
the  great  hooded  arm-chair  beside  the  fire  reposed 
the  proprietor,  tenant,  or  owner  of  all.  She  was 
the  oldest  and  most  venerable  dame  ever  seen.  At 
this  time  she  was  asleep;  and  her  head  had  dropped 
forward  a  little,  but  not  much;  her  eyes  were  closed; 
her  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap.  She  was  now  so 
very  ancient  that  -she  never  left  her  chair  except  for 

268 


•/HE    CHILD    OF    SAMSON 

the  bed;  also,  by  reason  of  her  great  antiquity,  she 
now  passed  most  of  the  day  in  sleep,  partly  awake 
in  the  morning,  when  she  gazed  about  and  asked 
questions  of  the  day.  But  sometimes,  as  you  will 
presently  see,  she  revived  again  in  the  evening,  be- 
came lively  and  talkative,  and  suflFered  her  memory 
to  return  to  the  ancient  days. 

By  the  assistance  of  her  handmaidens,  this  venera- 
ble lady  was  enabled  to  present  an  appearance  both 
picturesque  and  pleasing,  chiefly  because  it  carried 
the  imagination  back  to  a  period  so  very  remote.  To 
begin  with,  she  wore  her  bonnet  all  day  long.  Forty 
years  ago  it  was  not  uncommon  in  country  places 
to  find  very  old  ladies  who  wore  their  bonnets  all 
day  long.  Ursula  Rosevean,  however,  was  the  last 
who  still  preserved  that  ancient  custom.  It  was  a 
large  bonnet  that  she  wore,  a  kind  of  bonnet  calcu- 
lated to  impress  very  deepl)^  the  imagination  of  one 
— whether  male  or  female — who  saw  it  for  the  first 
time;  it  was  of  bold  design,  as  capacious  as  a  store- 
ship,  as  flowing  in  its  lines  as  an  old  man-of-war; 
inspired  to  a  certain  extent  by  the  fashions  of  the 
Waterloo  period.  Yet,  in  great  part,  of  independent 
design.  Those  few  who  were  permitted  to  gaze 
upon  the  bonnet  beheld  it  reverently.  Within  the 
bonnet  an  adroit  arrangement  of  cap  and  ribbons 
concealed  whatever  of  baldness  or  exiguity  as  to 
locks — but  what  does  one  know?  Venus  Calva  has 
never  been  worshipped  by  men;  and  women  only 
pay  their  tribute  at  her  shrine  from  fear,  never  from 
love.  The  face  of  the  sleeping  lady  reminded  one — 
at  first,  vaguely — of  history.  Presently  one  per- 
ceived that  it  was  the  identical  face  which  that 
dread  Occidental  star.  Queen  Elizabeth  herself, 
would  have  assumed  had  she  lived  to  the  age  of 
ninety-five,  which  was  Ursula's  time  of  life  in  the 
year  ISS'l-.  For  it  was  an  aquiline  face,  thin  and 
sharp;   and   if  her   eyes  had  been  open  you   would 

269 


WALTER    BESANT 

have  remarked  that  they  were  bright  and  piercing, 
almost  like  those  of  the  Tudor  Queen.  Her  cheek 
still  preserved  something  of  the  color  which  had  once 
made  it  beautiful;  but  cheek  and  forehead  alike 
were  covered  with  lines  innumerable,  and  her  with- 
ered hands  seemed  to  have  grown  too  small  for  their 
natural  glove.  She  was  dressed  in  black  silk,  and 
wore  a  gold  chain  about  her  neck. 

The  clock  struck  half  past  five  melodiously.  Then 
the  girl  started  and  sat  upright — as  awakened  out 
of  her  dream.  "  Armorel,"  it  seemed  to  say — nay, 
since  it  seemed  to  say,  it  actually  did  say — "  Child 
Armorel,  I  am  old  and  wise.  For  a  hundred  and 
forty-three  years,  ever  since  I  left  the  hands  of  the 
ingenious  Peter  Trevellick,  of  Penzance,  in  the 
year  1741,  I  have  been  counting  the  moments,  never 
ceasing  save  at  those  periods  when  surgical  opera- 
tions have  been  necessary.  In  each  year  there  are 
thirty-one  million  five  hundred  and  thirty-six  thou- 
sand moments.  Judge,  therefore,  for  yourself  how 
many  moments  in  all  I  have  counted.  I  must,  you 
will  own,  be  very  wise  indeed.  I  am  older  even 
than  your  great-great-grandmother.  I  remember 
her  a  baby  first,  and  then  a  pretty  child,  and  then  a 
beautiful  woman,  for  all  she  is  now  so  worn  and 
wizened.  I  remember  her  father  and  her  grand- 
father. Also  her  brothers  and  her  son  and  her 
grandson — and  your  own  father,  dear  Armorel.  The 
moments  pass;  they  never  cease;  I  tell  them  as  they 
go.  You  have  but  short  space  to  do  all  you  wish  to 
do.  You,  child,  have  done  nothing  at  all  yet.  But 
the  moments  pass.  Patience.  For  you,  too,  work  will 
be  found.  Youth  passes.  You  can  hear  it  pass.  I 
tell  the  moments  in  which  it  melts  away  and  vanishes. 
Age  itself  shall  pass.  You  may  listen  if  you  please. 
I  tell  the  moments  in  which  it  slowly  passes." 

Armorel  looked  at  the  clock  with  serious  eyes 
during  the  delivery  of  this  fine  sermon,  the  whole 

270 


THE    CHILD    OF    SAMSON 

bearing  of  which  she  did   not  perhaps  comprehend. 
Then   she   started   up   suddenly   and    sprung   to   her 
feet,  stung  by  a  sudden  pang  of  restlessness,  with 
a  quick   breath   and   a  sigh.     We  who  have  passed 
the  noon  of  life  are  apt  to   forget  the   disease  of 
restlessness  to  which  youth  is  prone;  it  is  an  affec- 
tion which  greatly  troubles  that  period  of  life,  though 
!    it  should  be  the  happiest  and  most  contented;  it  is 
a  disorder  due  to  anticipation,  impatience,  and  in- 
experience.    The  voyage  is  all  before;  youth  is  eager 
J   to  be  sailing  on  that  unknown  ocean  full  of  strange 
;   islands;  who  would  not  be  restless  with  such  a  jour- 
f  ney  before  one  and  such  discoveries  to  make? 

Armorel  opened  the  door  noiselessly,  and  slipped 
!  out.  At  the  same  moment  the  old  dog  awoke  and 
^rept  out  with  her,  going  delicately  and  on  tiptoe 
lest  he  should  awaken  the  ancient  lady.  In  the 
hall  outside,  the  girl  stood  listening.  The  house  was 
quite  silent,  save  from  the  kitchen  there  was  wafted 
on  the  air  a  soft  droning — gentle,  melodious,  and 
murmurous,  like  the  contented  booming  of  a  bum- 
ble-bee among  the  figwort.  Armorel  laughed  gently. 
"Oh!"  she  murmured;  "they  are  all  asleep.  Grand- 
mother is  asleep  in  the  parlor;  Dorcas  and  Chessun 
are  asleep  in  the  kitchen;  Justinian  is  asleep  in  the 
cottage,  and  I  suppose  the  boy  is  asleep  somewhere 
in  the  farmyard." 

The  girl  led  the  way,  and  the  dog  followed. 
She  passed  through  the  door  into  the  garden  of 
the  front.  It  was  not  exactly  a  well-ordered  garden, 
because  everything  seemed  to  grow  as  it  pleased; 
but  then  in  Samson  you  have  not  to  coax  flowers  and 
plants  into  growing:  they  grow  because  it  pleases 
them  to  grow:  this  is  the  reason  why  they  grow  so 
tall  and  so  fast.  The  garden  faced  the  south-west, 
and  was  protected  from  the  north  and  east  by  the 
house  itself  and  by  a  high  stone  wall.  There  is  not 
anywhere  on  the  island  a  warmer  and  sunnier  corner 

271 


WALTER    BESANT 

than  this  little  front  garden  of  Holv  Hill.  The  gera- 
nium clambered  up  the  walls  beside  and  among  the 
branches  of  the  tree-fuchsia,  both  together  cover- 
ing the  front  of  the  house  with  the  rich  coloring  of 
their  flowers.  On  either  side  of  the  door  grew  a 
great  tree,  with  gnarled  trunk  and  twisted  branches, 
of  lemon  verbena,  fragrant  and  sweet,  perfuming 
the  air;  the  myrtles  were  like  unto  trees  for  size; 
the  very  marguerites  ran  to  timber  of  the  smaller 
kind;  the  pampas-grass  in  the  warmest  corner  rose 
eight  feet  high,  waving  its  long  silver  plumes;  the 
tall  stalk  still  stood  which  had  borne  the  flowers 
of  an  aloe  that  very  summer;  the  leaves  of  the 
plant  itself  were  slowly  dying  away,  their  life  work, 
^'hich  is  nothing  at  all  but  the  production  of  that 
one  flowering  stem,  finished.  That  done,  the  world 
has  no  more  attractions  for  the  aloe;  it  is  content; 
it  slowly  dies  away.  And  in  the  front  of  the  garden 
was  a  row  of  tall  dracaena  palms.  An  old  ship's 
figure-head,  thrown  ashore  after  a  wreck,  represent- 
ing the  head  and  bust  of  a  beautiful  maiden,  gilded, 
but  with  a  good  deal  of  the  gilt  rubbed  off,  stood 
in  the  left  hand  of  the  garden,  half  hidden  by  an- 
other fuchsia-tree  in  flower;  and  a  huge  old-fash- 
ioned ship's  lantern  hung  from  an  iron  bar  project- 
ing over  the  door  of  the  house. 

The  house  itself  was  of  stone,  with  a  roof  of  small 
slates.  Impossible  to  say  how  old  it  was,  because  in 
this  land,  stone-work  ages  rapidly,  and  soon  becomes 
covered  with  yellow  and  orange  lichen,  while  in  the 
interstices  there  soon  grows  the  gray  sandwort;  and 
in  the  soft  sea  air  and  the  damp  sea  mists  the  sharp 
edges  of  granite  are  quickly  rounded  off  and  crum- 
bled. But  it  was  a  very  old  house,  save  for  the 
square  projecting  window,  which  had  been  added 
recently — say  thirty  or  forty  years  ago — a  long,  low 
house  of  two  stories,  simply  built ;  it  stands  half-way 
up  the  hill  which  slopes  down  to  the  water's  edge; 
272 


THE    CHILD    OF    SAMSO>f 

it  is  protected  from  the  north  and  north-east  winds, 
which  are  the  deadliest  enemies  to  Scilly,  partly 
by  the  hill  behind  and  partly  by  a  spur  of  gray 
rock  running:  like  an  ancient  Cyclopean  wall  do\\Ti 
the  whole  face  of  the  hill  into  the  sea,  where  for 
many  a  fathom  it  sticks  out  black  teeth,  round  which 
the  white  surge  rises  and  tumbles,  even  in  the  calm- 
est time. 

Beyond  the  garden  w^all — why  they  wanted  a  gar- 
den wall  I  know  not,  except  for  the  pride  and  dig- 
nity of  the  thing — was  a  narrow  green,  with  a  little 
— a  very  little — pond;  in  the  pond  there  were  ducks; 
and  beside  the  green  was  a  small  farm-yard,  con- 
taining everything  that  a  farm-yard  should  contain 
except  a  stalble.  It  had  no  stable,  because  there  are 
no  horses  or  carts  upon  the  island.  Pigs  there  are, 
and  cows;  fowls  there  are,  and  ducks  and  geese, 
and  a  single  donkey  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  the 
flower  baskets  from  the  farm  to  the  landing-place. 
But  neither  horse  nor  cart. 

Beyond  the  farm-yard  was  a  cottage,  exactly  like 
the  house,  but  smaller.  It  was  thatched,  and  on  the 
thatch  grew  clumps  of  samphire.  This  was  the 
abode  of  Justinian  Tryeth,  bailiflf,  head  man,  or 
foreman,  who  managed  the  farm.  When  you  have 
named  Ursula  Rosevean  and  Armorel,  her  great- 
great-granddaughter,  and  Justinian  Tryeth,  and 
Dorcas  his  wife — she  was  a  native  of  St.  Agnes, 
and  therefore  a  Hicks  by  birth — Peter  his  son,  and 
Chessun  his  daughter,  you  have  a  complete  directory 
of  the  island,  because  nobody  else  now  lives  on  Sam- 
son. Formerly,  however,  and  almost  within  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  according  to  the 
computation  of  antiquaries  and  the  voice  of  tradi- 
tion, this  island  maintained  a  population  of  over 
two  score. 

The  hill  which  rises  behind  the  house  is  the  south- 
ern hill  of  the  two  which,  with  the  broad  valley  be- 

273 


WALTER    BESANT 

tween  them,  make  up  the  Island  of  Samson.  This 
hill  slopes  steeply  seaward  to  south  and  west.  It 
is  not  a  lofty  hill,  by  any  means.  In  Scilly  there 
are  no  lofty  hills.  When  nature  addressed  herself 
to  the  construction  of  this  archipelago  she  brought 
to  the  task  a  light  touch;  at  the  moment  she  hap- 
pened to  be  full  of  feeling  for  the  great  and 
artistic  effects  which  may  be  produced  by  small 
elevations,  especially  in  those  places  where  the  ma- 
terial is  granite.  Therefore,  though  she  raised  no 
Alpine  peak  in  Scilly,  she  provided  great  abundance 
and  any  variety  of  bold  coastline  with  rugged  cliffs, 
lofty  cairns,  and  headlines  piled  with  rocks.  And 
her  success  as  an  artist  in  this  genre  has  been  un- 
doubtedly wonderful.  The  actual  measurement  of 
Holy  Hill,  Samson — but  why  should  we  measur^^ 
has  been  taken,  for  the  admiration  of  the  world,  by 
the  Ordnance  Survey.  It  is  really  no  more  than  a 
hundred  and  thirty-two  feet — not  a  foot  more  or 
less.  But  then  one  knows  hills  ten  times  that  height 
— the  Herefordshire  Beacon  for  example — which  ar^ 
not  half  so  mountainous  in  the  effect  produced. 
Only  a  hundred  and  thirty-two  feet — yet  on  its  sum^ 
mit  one  feels  the  exhilaration  of  spirits  caused  by 
the  air  elsewhere  of  five  thousand  feet  at  least.  On 
its  southern  and  western  slopes  lie  the  fields  which 
form  the  Flower  Farm  of  Holy  Hill. 

Below  the  farm-yard  the  ground  sloped  more 
steeply  to  the  water;  the  slope  was  covered  with 
short  heather  fern,  now  brown  and  yellow,  and  long 
trailing  branches  of  bramble,  nov/  laden  with  ripe 
blackberries,  the  leaves  enriched  with  blazon  of  gold 
and  purple  and  crimson. 

Armorel  ran  across  the  green  and  plunged  among 
the  fern,  tossing  her  arms  and  singing  aloud,  the  old 
dog  trotting  and  jumping,  but  with  less  elasticity, 
beside  her.  She  was  bareheaded;  the  sunshine  made 
lier  dark  cheeks   ruddy  and  caused  her  black  eyes 

274 


THE    CHILD    OF    SAMSON 

to  glow.  Hebe,  young:  and  strong,  loves  Phoebus 
and  fears  not  any  freckles.  When  she  came  to  the 
water's  edge,  where  the  boulders  lie  piled  in  a 
broken  mass  among  and  above  the  water,  she  stood 
still  and  looked  across  the  sea,  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  began  to  sing  in  a  strong  contralto; 
but  no  one  could  hear  her,  not  even  the  coastguard 
on  Telegraph  Hill,  or  he  of  the  Star  Fort;  the 
song  she  sung  was  one  taught  her  by  the  old  lady, 
who  had  sung  it  herself  in  the  old,  old  days,  when 
the  road  was  always  filled  with  merchantmen  wait- 
ing for  convoy  up  the  Channel,  and  when  the  islands 
were  rich  with  the  trade  of  the  ships,  and  their  pilot- 
ing, and  their  wrecks — to  say  nothing  of  the  free 
trade  which  went  on  gallantly  without  break  or  stop. 
As  she  sung  she  lifted  her  arms  and  swung  them 
in  a  slow  cadence,  as  a  Nautch  girl  sometimes  swings 
her  arms.  What  she  sung  was  nothing  other  than 
the  old  song: 

*'  Early  one  morning,  just  as  the  sun  was  rising, 
I  heard  a  maid  sing  in  the  valley  below: 

'  Oh !  don't  deceive  me.    Oh  !  never  leave  me. 
How  could  you  use  a  poor  maiden  so?'" 

In  the  year  of  grace  1884,  Armorel  was  fifteen 
years  of  age.  But  she  looked  nineteen  or  twenty, 
because  she  was  so  tall  and  well-grown.  She  was 
dressed  simply  in  a  blue  flannel;  the  straw  hat  whic4i 
she  carried  in  her  hand  was  trimmed  with  red  rib- 
bons; at  her  throat  she  had  stuck  a  red  verbena — 
she  naturally  took  to  red,  because  her  complexion 
was  so  dark.  Black  hair;  black  eyes;  a  strongly 
marked  brow;  a  dark  cheek  of  warm  and  ruddy  hue; 
the  lips  full,  but  tlie  mouth  finely  curved;  features 
large  but  regular — she  was  already,  though  so  young, 
a  tall  and  handsome  woman.  Those  able  to  under- 
stand things  would  recognize  in  her  dark  complexion. 
In    her    carriage,    in   her    eyes,   and    in    her   upright 

27S 


I 

WALTER    BESANT 

figure  the  true  CastiJian  touch.  The  gypsy  is 
swarthy;  the  negro  is  black,  the  mulatto  is  dusky; 
it  is  not  the  color  alone,  but  the  figure  and  the  car-  ; 
riage  also,  which  mark  the  Spanish  blood.  A  noble  \ 
Spanish  lady;  yet  bow  could  she  get  to  Samson?  i 
She  wore  no  gloves — you  cannot  buy  gloves  in  | 
Samson — and  her  hands  were  brown  with  exposure  i 
to  sea  and  sun,  to  wind  and  rain;  they  were  by  no 
means  tiny  hands,  but  strong  and  capable  hands;  ! 
her  arms — no  one  ever  saw  them,  but  for  shape  and  i 
whiteness  they  could  not  be  matched — would  have  i 
disgraced  no  young  fellow  of  her  own  age  for 
strength  and  muscle,  lliat  was  fairly  to  be  expected  ; 
in  one  who  continually  sailed  and  rowed  across  the  j 
inland  seas  of  this  archipelago;  who  went  to  church  i 
by  boat  and  to  market  by  boat;  who  paid  her  visits  | 
by  boat,  and  transacted  her  business  by  boat,  and  1 
went  by  boat  to  do  her  shopping.  She  who  rows  \ 
every  day  upon  the  salt  water,  and  knows  how  to  ' 
manage  a  sail  when  the  breeze  is  strong  and  the  At-  i 
lantic  surge  rolls  over  the  rocks  and  roughens  the  ; 
still  water  of  the  road,  must  needs  be  strong  and 
sound.  For  my  own  part,  I  admire  not  the  fragile  i 
maiden  so  much  as  her  who  rejoices  in  her  strength,  | 
Youth  in  woman,  as  well  as  in  man,  should  be  brave  : 
and  lusty;  clean  of  limb  as  well  as  of  heart;  strong  I 
of  arm  as  well  as  of  will;  enduring  hardness  of  vol-  « 
untary  labor  as  well  as  hardness  of  involuntary  l 
pain;  with  feet  that  can  walk,  run,  and  climb,  and 
with  hands  that  can  hold  on.  Such  a  girl  as  Armorel,  i 
so  tall,  so  strong,  so  healthy,  offers,  methinks,  a  ! 
home  ready-made  for  all  the  virtues,  and  especially  ! 
the  virtues  feminine,  to  house  themselves  therein.  \ 
Here  they  will  remain,  growing  stronger  every  day,  j 
until  at  last  they  have  become  part  and  parcel  ot  '■ 
the  very  girl  herself,  and  cannot  be  parted  from  her.  i 
Whereas,  when  they  visit  the  puny  creature,  weak,  I 
timid,  delicate — but  no — 'tis  better  to  remain  silent  j 

27j  \ 


THE    CHILD    OF    SAMSON 

How  many  times  had  the  girl  wandered,  morn- 
ing or  afternoon,  down  the  rough  face  of  the  hill, 
and  stood  looking  vaguely  out  to  sea,  and  pres- 
ently returned  home  again?  How  many  such  walks 
had  she  taken  and  forgotten?  For  a  hundred  times? 
yea,  a  thousand  times — we  do  over  and  over  again 
the  old  familiar  action,  the  little  piece  of  the  day's 
routine,  and  forget  it  when  we  lie  down  to  sleep. 
But  there  comes  the  thousandth  time  when  the  same 
thing  is  done  again  in  the  same  way,  yet  is  never  to 
\he  forgotten.  For  on  that  day  happens  the  thing 
*  which  changes  and  charges  a  whole  life.  It  is  the 
'first  of  many  days.  It  is  the  beginning  of  new 
jdays.  From  it,  whatever  may  have  happened  before, 
'  everything  shall  now  be  dated  until  the  end.  Mo- 
hammed lived  many  years,  but  all  the  things  that 
happened  unto  him  or  his  successors  are  dated  from 
the  Flight.  Is  it  for  nothing  that  it  has  been  told 
what  things  Armorel  did  and  how  she  looked  on  this 
day?  Not  so,  but  for  the  sake  of  what  happened 
afterward,  and  because  +he  history  of  Armorel  be- 
gins with  this  restless  fit,  which  drove  her  out  of 
the  quiet  room  down  the  hill-side  to  the  sea.  Her 
history  begins,  like  every  history  of  a  woman  worth 
relating,  with  the  man  cast  by  the  sea  upon  the 
shores  of  her  island.  The  maiden  always  lives  upon 
an  island,  and  whether  the  man  is  cast  upon  the 
shore  by  the  sea  of  society,  or  the  sea  of  travel,  or 
the  sea  of  accident,  or  the  sea  of  adventure,  or  the 
sea  of  briny  waves  and  roaring  winds  and  jagged 
rocks,  matters  little.  To  Armorel  it  was  the  last. 
To  you,  dear  Dorothy  or  Violet,  it  will  doubtless  be 
by  the  sea  of  society.  And  the  day  that  casts  hfrn 
before  your  feet  will  ever  after  begin  a  new  period 
in  your  reckoning. 


377 


BJORNSTJERNE  BJORNSON 


Bjornstjerke  BjorxsoKj  poet  and  novelist,  was 
born  at  Kvikne,  Norway,  in  1833.  He  became  a 
student  at  the  University  of  Christiania  in  1852,  and 
almost  immediately  became  a  writer  for  periodicals. 
Later  he  managed  a  theater,  edited  two  papers  and 
traveled  extensively.  While  on  his  tours  he  was  a 
voluminous  writer  of  poems,  plays  and  novels.  His 
most  important  works  include  "  Magnhild,"  "  Arne," 
"  Flags  are  Flying.''  The  best  dramas  from  his  pen 
are   "  Mary  Stuart,"    "  A  Glove  "   and    "  Leonardo." 


THE    PRINCESS 

THE  Princess  sat  alone  in  her  maiden  bower. 
The  lad  blew  his  horn  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  \ 
"Why  playest  thou  alway?    Be  silent,  I  pray,  ' 

It  fetters  my  thoughts  that  would  flee  far  away. 

As  the  sun  goes  down."  j 

In  her  maiden  bower  sat  the  Princess  forlorn, 
The  lad  had  ceased  to  play  on  his  horn. 
"Oh,  why  art  thou  silent?    I  beg  thee  to  play! 
It  gives  wing  to  my  thoughts  that  would  flee  away. 
As  the  sun  goes  down." 

In  her  maiden  bower  sat  the  Princess  forlorn. 
Once  more  with  delight  played  the  lad  on  his  horn,  i 
She  wept  as  the  shadows  grew  long,  and  she  sighed: 
"  Oh,  tell  me,  my  God,  what  my  heart  doth  betide. 
Now  the  sun  has  gone  down." 

27S 


ARNE 


THE    NORTH    LAND 


M' 


Y  land  will  I  defend, 
My  land  will  I  befriend, 
And  my  son  to  help  its  fortunes  and  be  faithful 
I  will  train; 

Its  weal  shall  be  my  prayer, 
And  its  want  shall  be  my  care, 
From  the  rugged  old  snow  mountains  to  the  cabins 
by  the  main. 

We  have  sun  enough  and  rain. 
We  have  fields  of  golden  grain; 
But  love  is  more  than  fortune,  or  the  best  of  sunny 
weather ; 

And  we  have  many  a  Child  of  Song, 
And  Sons  of  Labor  strong. 
We  have  hearts  to  raise  the  North  Land,  if  they  only 
beat  together. 

In  many  a  gallant  fight 
We  have  shown  the  world  our  might, 
And  reared  the  Norseman's  banner  on  a  vanquished 
stranger's  shore; 

But  fresh  combats  we  will  brave. 
And  a  nobler  flag  shall  wave. 
With  more  of  health  and  beauty  than  it  ever  Lad 
before ! 

ARNE 


IThe  following  extracts  from  "  Arne  "  are  taken  from  a  transla- 
tion made  by  a  Norwegian,  and  published  in  English  at  Bergen  bj 
H.  J.  GeelmiiydenH] 

(A  Tale  of  Peasant  Life  in  Norway) 

[Arne  is  the  son  of  Margit  Kampen,  the  owner 

of  a  small  farm;  his  father  Nils,  the  tailor  and  f-d- 

279 


BJORNSTJERNE     BJORNSON 

dler,  a  drunken  ne'er-do-well,  who  had  been  the  idol 
of  the  lasses  at  all  rural  gatherings,  is  dead.     Ame 
has  grown  up  an  industrious  lad,  but  a  maker  of 
songs,   and   possessed   with  strange  longings   to   see  ! 
other  lands  beyond  the  hills  of  snow.     Besides  man-  I 
aging    his    mother's    land    he    works    at    seasons    at   l 
neighbors'  farms,  and  he  falls  in  love  with  Eli,  the  | 
daughter  of  Birgit  Boen,  who  had  been  one  of  his  j 
father's  many   admirers,   and  had  hoped  to  be  his 
wife.]  J 

As  Arne  with  his  hand-saw  on  his  shoulder  walked  ^ 
over  the  ice  and  approached  the  farm  of  Boen,  it  \ 
seemed  to  him  a  very  nice  one.     The  house  looked  ^ 
as  if  it  were  newly  painted.    He  felt  somewhat  cold,  j 
and  perhaps  that  was  why  the  house  looked  so  com-  / 
fortable.     He  did  not  go  straight  in,  but  went  first  ^ 
to  the  cow-house.    There  a  flock  of  thick-haired  goats  ■ 
were   standing  in   the   snow,   gnawing  the   bark   of 
some  sprigs.    A  chained  dog  was  running  to  and  fro 
by  its   kennel  barking  as  if  the  fiend   himself  had 
been  coming,  but  wagged  his  tail  as  soon  as  Arne  ; 
stopped,    and   then    allowed    himself   to    be    patted.  - 
The  kitchen  door  on  the  upper  side  of  the  house  was 
often  opened,  and,  every  time,  Arne  looked  that  way:  ; 
but  it  was  either  the  dairy-maid  who  came  with  her 
milk-pans,  or  the  cook-maid,  who  emptied  some  ves-  ■ 
sels  for  the  goats.    In  the  barn  they  were  threshing; 
to  the  left  before  the  wood-house  a  boy  was  standing  ' 
cutting   wood,   and    behind   him   there  was   a   great 
quantity  of  wood  piled  together.    Arne  put  down  his 
hand-saw  and  went  into  the  kitchen;  there  was  white  \ 
sand   on   the   floor   and   juniper   cut   in   very   small 
pieces  strewn  over.     Copper  kettles  were  shining  on 
the  walls,  and  jugs  and  plates  standing  in  long  rows,  i 
They  were  preparing  dinner,  and  he  asked  to  speak  ' 
to  Bard.    "  Go  intc  the  room,"  said  somebody,  point- 
ing to  the  door.     He  went.     There  was  no  latch  to  , 
the  door,  but  the  handle  was  of  brass.    Inside  it  was  ! 


ARNE 

light  and  painted,  the  ceiling  ornamented  with  many 
roses;  the  cupboards  red,  with  the  name  of  the  pro- 
prietor in  black;  the  bedstead  red  likewise,  but  with 
blue  stripes  on  all  the  edges.  Near  the  stove  there 
was  a  broad-shouldered  man  sitting  with  a  mild  face 
and  long  yellow  hair.  He  was  putting  some  hoops 
round  some  little  tubs.  At  the  long  table  a  tall  and 
slender  woman  was  sitting  with  a  handkerchief  on 
her  head  and  with  a  tight-sleeved  gown.  She  was 
dividing  some  corn  into  two  heaps,  lliere  was  no 
I  one  else  in  the  room. 

"  Good  day,  and  blessing  to  your  work ! "  said 
'  Arne,  taking  oflF  his  cap.  Both  looked  up,  the  man 
smiling,  and  asked  who  he  was. 

"  He  who  is  to  cut  with  a  hand-saw."  The  man 
then  smiled  more  and  said,  whilst  bending  his  head 
down  and  again  beginning  his  work,  "  Oh !  Arne 
Kampen?  " 

"  Arne  Kampen ! "  cried  out  the  woman,  staring 
rith  all  her  eyes. 

Her  husband  looked  up,  smiling  anew.  "  Son  of 
Nils  the  tailor; "  and  he  set  to  work  again. 

Some  while  afterwards  the  woman  rose,  went  up  to 
a  shelf,  turned  round,  went  to  the  cupboard,  turned 
again,  and  whilst  at  last  standing  and  looking  at 
something  in  the  drawer  of  the  table  she  asked  with- 
out looking  up,  "Is  he  going  to  work  here?" 

"  Yes,  he  is,"  replied  the  man,  also  without  looking 
up.  "  I  am  afraid  nobody  has  asked  you  to  sit 
down,"  continued  he,  turning  towards  Arne.  He 
went  to  take  a  seat;  the  woman  went  out,  the  man 
went  on  working,  so  Arne  asked  if  he  should  also 
begin.     "  We  must  dine  first." 

The  woman  did  not  come  in  any  more,  but  the  next 
time  the  kitchen  door  was  opened  it  was  Eli  who  en- 
tered. She  pretended  at  first  not  to  see  him;  when 
he  rose  to  go  to  her  she  stopped,  half  turning  to 
offer  him  her  hand,   but  she  did  not  look  at  him, 

281 


BJORNSTJERNE     BJORNSON 

They  then  spoke  a  couple  of  words  to  each  other, 
the  father  going  on  working.  She  had  her  hair 
plaited,  was  dressed  in  a  high-bodied  gown  with  nar- 
row sleeves;  she  was  slender  and  straight,  round 
about  the  waist,  and  had  very  small  hands.  She  laid 
the  table,  as  the  working  men  dined  in  the  other 
room,  but  Arne  with  the  family  in  this  room.  "  Will 
not  your  mother  come  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  No,  she  is  upstairs  weighing  some  wool.** 

"Have  you  asked  her?" 

"  Yes,  but  she  says  she  wants  nothing."  There  was 
some  silence. 

"  But  it  is  cold  upstairs." 

"  She  did  not  wish  that  I  should  light  a  fire." 

After  dinner  Arne  worked;  in  the  evening  he  was 
again  in  the  room  with  the  family.  Then  Eli's 
mother  was  also  there.  The  women  were  sewing,  the 
husband  doing  some  little  jobs,  Arne  assisting  him, 
and  there  was  a  silence  of  some  hours,  for  Eli,  who 
always  seemed  to  be  the  spokeswoman,  was  also  silent 
now.  It  pained  Arne  to  think  that  so  it  was  also 
often  in  his  home,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  think  of  it 
before  now.  At  length  Eli  once  drew  a  deep  breath, 
as  if  she  had  kept  silence  long  enough,  and  then  she 
began  to  laugh.  Then  her  father  also  laughed,  and 
Arne  also  thought  it  very  ridiculous,  and  began  to 
laugh  too.  From  this  time  they  talked  a  little,  espe- 
cially Eli  and  Arne,  the  father  occasionally  joining 
in  with  a  word.  But  once,  as  Arne  had  happened  to 
talk  a  long  time,  he  looked  up.  He  then  saw  that  the 
mother  had  let  her  work  fall  and  sat  looking  eagerly 
at  him.  She  now  began  to  work  again,  but  at  the 
first  words  he  happened  to  say  she  looked  up. 

It  was  now  bedtime,  and  every  one  went  to  rest. 
Arne  would  try  to  remember  the  dream  he  had  the 
first  night  he  slept  in  a  new  place,  but  there  was  no 
sense  in  it.  The  whole  day  he  had  spoken  little  or 
nothing  with  Eli's  father,  but  all  night  long  it  was  of 


him  he  was  dreaming.  The  last  thing  he  dreamed 
was,  that  Bard  was  sitting  playing  cards  with  Nils 
the  tailor,  who  was  very  angry  and  pale  in  the  face, 
whilst  Bard  was  smiling  and  dragging  all  the  cards 
over  to  him. 

Arne  remained  there  several  days,   during  which 

little  was  spoken,  but  a  great  deal  of  work  was  done. 

Not  only  the  family  in  their  own  room  were  silent, 

but  even  the  servants,  the  workmen,  and  the  women. 

There  was  an  old  dog  in  the  yard,  which  was  always 

[barking  whenever  there   came   any  stranger   to   the 

farm;    but   the  people  said   "Hush!"   and   then  he 

fwent  away  growling  to  lie  down  again.     At  home  at 

•;  Kampen  there  was  a  great  weathercock  on  the  top  of 

'the  house,  that  turned  with  the  wind.     Here  there 

'  was  a  still  larger  one  that  Arne  could  not  but  take 

notice  of,  because  it  did  not  turn  at  all.     \V  hen  the 

wind   was    strong   the   weather-cock    always   worked 

hard  to  get  loose,  and  Arne  looked  at  this  so  long 

that  he  was  induced  to  go  up  on  the  roof  to  loosen 

it.    It  was  not  frozen  fast,  as  he  thought,  but  a  stick 

was  put  in  to  make  it  stand  still.     This  Arne  took 

out  and  threw  down.     The  stick  hit  Bard,  who  was 

walking   underneath.      He   looked   up:     "What   are 

you  doing  there?" 

"  I  am  loosening  the  weather-cock." 
"  Do  not  do  that,  it  creaks  when  it  goes." 
Arne  was  sitting  astride  on  the  ridge  of  the  house. 
"  I  am  sure  that  it  is  better  than  to  let  it  be  silent." 

Bard  looked  up  at  Arne  and  Arne  looked  down  on 
Bard.  Then  Bard  smiled  and  called  up  to  him,  "  If 
I  must  shriek  when  I  am  to  talk  then  I  had  better 
be  silent." 

Now  it  may  happen  so  that  a  word  is  remembered 
a  long  time  after  it  has  been  said,  and  especially 
when  it  is  the  last  word  said.  These  words  followed 
Arne  when  in  the  cold  weather  he  crept  down  from 
the  roof,  and  they  were  in  his  mind  when  he  entered 

2m 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSON 

the  room  in  the  evening.    There  stood  Eli  in  the  dusk 
of  the  evening  near  a  window  looking  across  the  icCc 
which  was  lying  as  smooth  as  a  mirror  in  the  moon- 
light.    He  went  to  the  other  window  and  looked  out 
as  she  did.     Inside  it  was  warm  and  quiet,  outside 
cold;  and  a  sharp  evening  breeze  rushed  through  the 
valley,  shaking  the  trees  so  much  that  the  shadows 
which  they  threw  in  the  moonlight  did  not  lie  still, 
but  groped  about  and  crept  on  the  surface  of  the 
snow.     In  the  parsonage  a  light  could  be  seen  that 
came  ever  opening  and  shutting  itself,  taking  many  i 
shapes  and  colors  as  it  always  appears  when  one  is  1 
looking  too  long  at  it.     The  dark  mountain   stood  , 
overhead,  with  many  marvelous  fairy  stories  in  the  ' 
bottom,  but  with  moonlight  on  the  snowy  plains  of  its  ' 
summit.    In  the  sky  could  be  seen  the  stars  and  some  1 
little  flickering  aurora  borealis  yonder  in  one  corner;  ] 
but  it  did  not  increase  all  over  the  sky.     Some  dis- 
tance   from    the   window    down    towards    the   water 
several  trees  Mere  standing,  and  they  seemed  steal- 
ing over  to  each  other  through  their  shadows;  but 
the  great  ash  stood  by  itself  writing  on  the  snow. 

It  was  quite  silent  everywhere;  only  occasionally 
there  was  something  that  gave  a  long  and  yelling 
shriek  that  sounded  quite  plaintive.  "  What  is  that  ?  " 
asked  Arne. 

"  It  is  the  weather-cock,"  replied  Eli,  afterwards 
adding  more  slowly,  as  if  to  herself,  "  It  must  have 
been  loosened."  Arne  had  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
wanting  to  talk  and  was  not  able;  but  now  he  said: 

"  Do  you  remember  the  story  of  the  thrushes ;  that 
song?  " 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Well,  I  remember  it  was  you  who  told  it  us 
That  was  a  nice  story." 

She  now  said  in  so  soft  a  voice  that  it  seemed  td 
him  the  first  time  he  heard  it,  "  I  often  think  there 
is  something  that  sings  when  it  is  quite  still." 

284 


ARNE 

"  That  is  what  is  good  in  us," 

She  looked  towards  him  as  if  there  was  something 
too  much  in  that  answer.  They  were  both  silent 
afterwards.  Then  she  asked  him  while  she  was  writ- 
ing with  her  finger  on  the  glass-pane,  "  Have  you 
lately  made  any  song?  " 

He  turned  red,  but  she  did  not  see  it.  She  there- 
fore asked  again,  "  How  do  you  manage  to  make 
gongs  ?  " 

"Would  you  like  to  know?" 

"  Yes,  I  should." 

"  I  take  care  of  such  thoughts  as  others  allow  to 
pass."  She  was  now  silent  a  long  time.  I  dare  say 
she  was  trying  to  compose  a  song  of  some  sort  or 
other,  as  if  she  had  had  some  thoughts,  but  allowed 
them  to  pass.  "  That  was  strange,"  said  she,  as  it 
to  herself,  and  began  writing  again  on  the  glass- 
pane. 

"  I  was  making  a  song  the  first  time  I  saw  you." 

"Where  was  that?" 

"  Near  the  parsonage  that  evening  you  left  it.  I 
saw  you  in  the  water." 

She  laughed,  stood  quiet  a  little,  and  said,  "  Let  me 
hear  that  song." 

Arne  had  never  before  done  anything  of  the  kind, 
but  now  he  commenced  saying  the  song: 

My  Thora  jumped  so  light  on  her  feet 

Her   lover   to   meet. 
He  sang.     It  was  heard  over  roof  and  way — 

Good  day!  good  day! 
And  all  little  birds  sang  merry  and  gay: 
"  Till   midsummer-eve 

Laughter  and  dancing  they  never  leave; 
Later   but   little   I   know,  if  she   does   her   garland 
weave." 

Eli  stood  very  attentive  a  long  time  after  he  had 
done.  At  last  she  burst  out,  **Well,  how  I  do  pitjr 
her  I" 

tSft 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSON 

"  It  appears  to  me  as  if  I  had  not  made  that  song," 
said  he,  and  remained  standing  as  if  looking  after 
the  song. 

Then  she  said,  "  But  I  hope  it  will  not  go  so  with 
me."  j 

"  No,  I  thought  more  of  myself."  ■ 

"  Will  it  go  so  with  you  then?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  but  I  have  felt  so  at  times." 

"  That  is  strange,"  and  she  wrote  on  the  glass-pane 
again.  .j 

The  next  day  when  Arne  came  in  to  dine  he  went  \ 
up  to  the  window.  Outside  it  was  gray  and  thick,  | 
Inside  it  was  warm  and  comfortable.  But  on  the  ^ 
window-pane  was  written  with  a  finger,  Arne,  Arne,  ; 
Arne,  and  continually  Arne.  It  was  near  this  win-  ' 
dow  that  Eli  had  been  standing  the  preceding  night.  ' 

[His  mother  dreads  that  Arne  will  go  away,  and  - 
is  glad  to  discover  that  he  has  fallen  in  love;  but, 
knowing  his  shyness,  she  schemes  to  bring  about  the  ; 
match,   and   the   kindly  pastor   of  the   village   aids   i 
her.  j 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Margit,  in  the  door  up  at  the  I 
clergyman's.  It  was  a  Sunday  evening  later  in  the  ; 
summer;  he  was  come  from  church,  and  she  had 
been  sitting  there  till  now — it  was  almost  seven.  ! 
"  Good-bye,  Margit,"  said  the  clergyman.  She  made  | 
haste  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  yard,  for  ] 
there  she  had  just  seen  Eli  Boen  playing  with  the  : 
clergyman's  son  and  her  own  brother. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Margit,  and  remained  stand- 
ing.   "  God  bless  the  party !"     "  Good  evening,"  said 
Eli.     She  was  burning  red  in  the  face,  and  would    j 
leave  off,  though  the   boys  pressed  her  to   go  on;    \ 
but  she  begged  to  be  excused,  and  was  permitted  to    ; 
leave  off  for  to-night.  I 

"  I  almost  think  I  should  know  you,"  said  Margit.    ! 

"  That  may  be  so,"  said  the  other.  I 

"It   could  not  be   Eli   Boen.'"     Yes,  it  was  she.    ' 
2SQ 


ARNE 

'  "Why  to  be  sure,  so  you  are  Eli  Boen?  Yes,  now 
I  see  how  like  you  are  to  your  mother." 

Eli's  tawny  hair  was  torn  out,  so  it  hung  long  and 
loose  down;  she  was  as  hot  and  red  in  the  face  as 
a.  berry;  her  breath  came  heavily,  so  much  so  that 
she  could  not  talk  and  laugh.  "  Well,  now,  that  be- 
longs to  youth,  that  does,"  said  Margit,  and  looked 
at  the  girl  till  she  grew  quite  fond  of  her.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  do  not  know  me,  do  you?"  Eli  wished  to 
ask,  but  did  not  do  so  on  account  of  the  other  being 
I  elder,  so  she  said  that  she  did  not  recollect  ever  hav- 
ing seen  her  before.  "  Why,  no,  it  could  not  be  ex- 
pected that  you  knew  me;  old  people  seldom  get 
out.  My  son  you  know  perhaps  a  little — Arne  Kam- 
pen?  I  am  his  mother."  She  stole  a  glance  at  Eli, 
whose  breath  directly  came  slowly,  and  her  face  be- 
came serious,  and  eyes  staring.  "  I  almost  think  he 
has  been  at  work  once  yonder  at  Boen."  Yes,  he  had. 
"  It  is  beautiful  weather  to-night.  We  threw  about 
the  hay  during  the  day  and  took  it  in  before  I  left, 
it  is  such  blessed  weather." 

"  It  will  certainly  be  a  good  hay  harvest  this  year,*' 
said  Eli. 

"Yes,  you  may  say  so.  At  Boen  I  suppose  it  is 
beautiful?" 

"  They  have  done  there  now." 

"  I  dare  say  they  have;  great  help,  active  people. 
Are  you  going  home  to-night?"  No,  she  should  not 
do  so.  "  Could  not  you  go  with  me  part  of  the 
road?  It  is  so  seldom  I  find  any  one  to  talk  with, 
and  I  dare  say  it  does  not  matter  much  for  you." 
Eli  excused  herself  that  she  had  not  her  jacket  on. 
"  Why,  yes.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  ask  such  a 
thing  the  first  time  I  see  a  person,  but  one  must  bear 
with  old  people."  Eli  said  she  might  go  with  her; 
she  would  only  run  in  for  her  jacket. 

It  was  a  very  close  jacket.  When  it  was  hooked, 
it  looked  as  if  it  were  a  body  of  a  dress  that  she  had 

287 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSON 

on;  but  now  she  onlj  hooked  the  two  lowest  hooks,  \ 
she  was  so  hot.  Her  fine  linen  had  a  little  collar,  ■ 
that  was  turned  over  and  kept  together  in  the  front 
by  a  silver  button  in  the  form  of  a  bird  with  j 
wings  spread  out.  Such  a  button  Nils  the  tailor  ' 
had  worn  the  first  time  Margit  Kampen  danced  with 
him.  , 

"  A  nice  button,"  said  she,  looking  at  it. 

"  I  got  it  from  mother,"  said  Eli. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  have,"  and  she  was  helping 
her  and  putting  her  in  order. 

Now    they    walked    on.      The    grass    was    mowed 
down,  and  was  lying  in  little  heaps,  to  which  Margit 
went  up,  and   found  when  smelling  it  that  it  was    : 
good  hay.     She  asked  about  the  cattle  they  had  on   I 
this  farm,  and  then  got  the  opportunity  to  ask  about   i 
the  cattle  they  had  at  Boen  and  told  how  much  cattle   ; 
they  had  at   Kampen.       "  Our   farm  has   improved    : 
much  in  the  later  years,  and  it  may  be  more  than   | 
twice  as  large.    Tliere  are  now  twelve  milch  cows,  and 
there  might  be  more,  but  Arne  has  so  many  books   ' 
he  reads   in   and  manages   after,   therefore   he  %vill 
have  them  fed  in  such  a  grand  style."    Eli  said  noth- 
ing to  all  this,  as  might   be   expected,   but   Margit   ] 
asked  her  how  old  she  was.     She  was  a  little  more  i 
than  twenty  years.     "  Have  you  tried  your  hand  in   i 
house-keeping?     You  look  such  a  lady  I  suppose  it   ] 
has  not  been  much."    Yes,  she  had  helped  somewhat^ 
especially  in  the  later  time.     "  Well,  it  is  good  to  bfc 
used  to  everything.     When  one  gets   a  large  houst 
much  may  be  wanted.       But  certainly  that  one  who    ; 
finds  good  help   before  her  has  no  reason  to  com- 
plain."    Eli  would  like  to  return,  for  now  they  were    j 
a  long  way  past  the  parsonage.    "  It  will  be  a  couple    ' 
of  hours  before  the  sun  goes  down;  it  would  be  kind    j 
of  you  to  go  on  talking  with  me  a  little  longer." 
And  Eli  went  with  her.  ; 

Margit  now  began  to  talk  of  Arne.     "  I  do  not    ! 

288  ^ 


ARNE 

know  if  you  know  much  of  him.  He  might  be  able 
to  teach  you  something.  Good  Lord,  what  a  deal  he 
has  read !"  Eli  confessed  she  knew  he  had  read 
much.  "  But  that  is  the  least  good  in  him,  that  is. 
So  good  as  he  has  been  towards  his  mother  all  his 
days,  that  is  something  more.  If  the  old  adage  be 
true  that  the  person  who  is  kind  to  his  mother  is 
sure  to  make  a  good  husband,  then  that  one  he 
chooses  will  not  have  much  to  complain  of."  Eli 
asked  why  they  had  painted  the  house  yonder  with 
gray  colors.  "  I  suppose  they  have  not  had  any 
other,"  thought  Margit.  "  I  am  sure  I  should  wish 
with  all  my  heart  that  my  Arne  got  a  reward  for  all 
the  good  he  has  been  doing  to  his  mother.  The 
woman  he  ought  to  have  for  a  wife  ought  to  be  well 
instructed  and  of  good  heart.  What  is  it  you  are 
looking  after,  my  child?" 

"  I  only  lost  a  little  sprig  I  was  carrying." 

"  Well,  I  have  many  thoughts,  I  can  tell  you,  whilst 
I  am  sitting  yonder  in  the  forest  by  myself.  If  he 
should  happen  to  carry  one  home  who  took  a  bless- 
ing with  her  both  to  the  house  and  to  her  husband, 
then  I  know  that  many  a  poor  one  would  be  glad  on 
that  day."  They  were  both  silent,  and  walked  on 
without  looking  at  each  other.  "  He  is  so  strange," 
began  again  the  mother,  "  he  has  been  so  much 
frightened  as  a  child,  and  therefore  he  has  been  used 
to  keep  all  his  thoughts  quite  to  himself,  and  such 
people  do  not  generally  get  on."  Now  Eli  insisted 
on  returning,  but  Margit  said  it  was  only  about  a 
mile  to  Kampen — not  so  much  even — and  therefore 
she  must  see  Kampen  as  she  had  come  so  far.  But 
Eli  thought  it  was  too  late  for  her.  "  Oh !  there  are 
always  those  who  will  go  home  with  you,"  said 
Margit. 

"No,  no!"  answered  Eli  quickly,  and  wanted  to 
return. 

"Well,  Arne  is  not  at  home,"   said  Margit,  "so 

.^  .-.0  ^9 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSON 

it  will  not  be  he;  but  I  dare  say  we  shall  find  some- 
body else." 

Eli  had  now  no  longer  so  great  an  objection.  "If 
it  only  will  not  be  too  late,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  if  we  stand  here  long  talking  it  may  soon 
be  too  late ; "  and  they  walked  on.  *'  I  suppose  you 
have  read  much,  you  who  have  been  educated  at  the 
clergj-man's?"  Yes,  she  had.  "That  will  be  of 
good  service  to  j'^ou  when  you  get  one  for  your  hus- 
band who  knows  somewhat  lees."  No;  such  a  one 
Eli  said  she  would  not  have.  "  I  dare  say  that  would  , 
not  be  the  best  either ;  but  here  in  the  parish  people  ; 
generally  know  very  little."  Eli  now  asked  if  it 
was  Kampen  that  she  could  see  right  before  her. 
"No;  that  is  Gransetren,  the  last  farm  before  you 
come  into  the  wood;  when  you  come  a  little  further 
up  you  will  see  Kampen.  It  is  easy  to  live  at  Kam- 
pen I  can  tell  you.  It  certainly  seems  to  be  a  little 
aside,  but  happiness  does  not  depend  upon  that." 
51i  now  asked  what  it  was  she  saw  smoking  yonder 
in  the  wood.  "  It  is  from  the  house  of  a  tenant  who 
has  got  a  place  under  Kampen.  There  lives  a  man 
from  Uplands  whose  name  is  Canute.  He  went 
about  quite  alone,  and  then  Arne  gave  him  this 
spot  to  clear.  Poor  Arne  knows  what  it  is  to  be 
alone."  In  a  little  while  they  came  so  high  up  that 
they  could  see  the  farm. 

"Is  that  Kampen?"  said  Eli,  stopping  and  point- 
ing. 

"  It  is,"  said  Margit.    She  stopped  also. 

The  sun  now  looked  them  right  in  the  face;  they 
put  their  hands  up  to  shade  their  eyes  and  looked 
downwards.  In  the  middle  of  the  plain  lay  the  farm- 
house, painted  red,  with  white  window-f rames ;  round 
about,  the  grass  was  mowed  down;  some  hay  was 
standing  in  heaps;  the  corn-fields  lay  green  beyond 
the  pale  meadow;  yonder,  near  the  cow-house,  they 
were  very  busy — cows,  sheep,  and  goats  coming  home. 

290 


ARNE 

the  dogs  bftrking,  the  dairy-maids  calling;  but  over 
it  all  the  loud  noise  of  the  waterfall  of  the  glen. 
The  longer  Eli  looked  the  more  she  heard  this  sound, 
which  at  last  grew  so  frightful  that  her  heart  began 
to  palpitate.  It  kept  on  thundering  and  roaring 
through  her  head  till  she  felt  as  if  quite  wild,  but 
afterwards  so  timid,  that  without  perceiving  it  she 
walked  cautiously  with  small  steps,  so  Margit  asked 
her  to  go  on  a  little  faster.  This  quite  frightened 
her,  "  I  have  never  heard  anything  like  that  water- 
fall before,"  said  she.  "  I  am  getting  frightened.." 
"  You  will  soon  get  used  to  it,"  said  the  mother 

"Dear  me!     Do  you  think  so?"  asked  Eli. 

"Well,  that  you  will  soon  see,"  said  Margit,  smil- 
ing. "  Come  now,  and  let  us  first  look  at  the  cattle,** 
continued  she,  turning  away  a  little  from  the  road, 
"  These  trees  Nils  planted  on  both  sides,  for  Nils 
wanted  to  have  it  nice;  and  so  does  Arne  also.  Look, 
there  is  the  garden  he  has  laid  out." 

"  Only  look !  "  cried  out  Eli,  running  fast  up  to  the 
fence. 

"  Yes ;  by-and-by  we  shall  look  at  that  also,"  said 
Margit.  Eli  now  looked  quickly  through  the  win- 
dows as  she  passed  them;  nobody  was  inside. 

Both  halted  on  the  bridge  going  up  to  the  barn 
and  looked  at  the  cows  as  they  passed  them  bellow- 
ing and  going  into  the  cow-house.  Margit  named 
them  all  by  names,  told  Eli  how  much  milk  each  of 
them  had  yielded,  what  time  some  should  be  calv- 
ing, and  which  of  them  not.  The  sheep  were  counted 
and  allowed  to  come  in;  they  were  all  of  a  large 
foreign  species,  for  Arne  had  been  able  to  get  hold 
of  two  lambs  of  that  species  from  the  southern  parts 
of  the  country.  "  He  is  always  applying  himself  to 
all  such  things,  though  we  should  not  think  it  of 
him."  They  now  went  into  the  barn  to  have  a 
look  at  the  hay  that  was  just  taken  in,  and  Eli  must 
smell  it,  "  for  such  hay  is  not  found  everywhere?' 

291 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSON 

Through  an  opening  in  the  wall  of  the  barn  they 
looked  out  on  the  corn-fields,  Margit  telling  Eli  how 
much  each  field  bore,  and  how  much  was  sown  of 
every  sort.  "  Yes,  I  am  sure  she  will  be  comfortable, 
that  one  who  comes  here."  They  went  out  of  the 
barn  and  walked  towards  the  house,  but  Eli,  who 
had  not  answered  anything  to  all  the  rest,  when 
passing  the  garden  now  asked  if  she  might  be  allowed 
to  go  in.  And  when  she  entered  she  asked  if  she 
might  be  allowed  to  take  a  flower  or  two.  There  was 
a  little  bench  in  the  corner  on  which  she  sat  down 
only  just  to  try  it,  for  she  immediately  rose. 

"We  must  make  haste  now,  lest  it  should  be  too 
late,"  said  Margit,  standing  at  the  door  of  the  house, 
and  they  walked  in.  Margit  asked  if  she  should  not 
treat  her  with  anything  as  this  was  her  first  visit; 
but  Eli  blushed,  answering  shortly,  "  No."  She 
looked  about  the  room:  it  was  not  very  large,  but 
comfortable,  and  contained  a  clock  and  a  stove. 
Here  Nils's  fiddle  was  hanging,  now  old  and  dark 
but  with  new  strings.  Here  also  a  couple  of  guns 
that  belonged  to  Arne,  English  fishing  tackle,  and 
other  strange  things  that  his  mother  took  down  and 
showed  her.  Eli  looked,  but  did  not  touch  any- 
thing. The  room  was  not  painted,  for  Arne  liked 
it  so.  Nor  was  there  need  of  any  painting  in  the 
room,  for  the  window  overlooked  the  glen,  that  had 
the  high  mountain  right  opposite  to  it  and  the  beau- 
tiful blue  in  the  back-ground;  this  room  was  larger 
and  nicer  than  the  others;  but  in  two  smaller  rooms  in 
the  wing  the  walls  were  painted,  for  there  the  mother 
was  to  live  when  she  grew  old,  and  when  he  had  got 
a  wife  in  the  house.  They  went  to  the  kitchen,  to 
the  pantry  and  larder,  to  the  drying-houses,  and  it 
now  only  remained  to  go  up  to  the  second  story. 

Here,  also,  were  rooms  well  fitted  up  and 
exactly  corresponding  to  those  downstairs,  but  they 
were  new,  and  not  taken  into  use  with  the  excep- 


ARNE 

tion  of  one  overlooking:  the  grlen.  In  these  rooms  up- 
stairs all  sorts  of  furniture  was  placed,  that  was  not 
used  every'  day.  Here  were  hanging:  a  great  many 
fur-coverlets  and  other  bed-clothes.  The  mother  took 
hold  of  them;  lifting  them;  Eli  did  the  same.  All 
these  things  she  was  very  fond  of  looking  at;  re- 
turned to  some  of  them,  asked  many  questions,  and 
was  more  and  more  amused.  Then  said  the  mother, 
"  Now  we  shall  find  the  key  to  Arne's  own  room.'* 
They  found  it  under  a  chest,  and  went  into  the  room 
that  overlooked  the  glen.  The  dreadful  noise  of  the 
waterfall  was  again  close  to  them,  for  the  window 
was  open.  Here  they  could  see  the  water  lashing  up 
between  the  rocks,  iDut  not  the  waterfall  itself  ex- 
cept higher  up  where  a  piece  of  rock  had  fallen  into 
it,  just  as  it  came  with  all  its  might  to  its  last  plunge 
down  into  the  deep.  On  the  upper  part  of  this  rock 
fresh  turf  was  lying;  a  couple  of  fir-cones  had 
found  place  here,  and  were  growing  up  again  with 
the  roots  in  the  crevices  of  the  rock.  The  wind  had 
been  wearing  and  tearing  these  trees,  the  waterfall 
continually  washed  them,  so  there  was  not  a  twig  four 
ells  from  the  root;  on  their  knees  they  seemed  bent, 
their  branches  crooked,  but  yet  they  stood  there  ris- 
ing high  between  the  rocks.  These  were  the  first 
things  Eli  saw  from  the  window,  then  the  white 
snowy  mountain  higher  up  than  the  green.  She 
looked  back ;  over  the  fields  there  was  peace  and  fer- 
tility; she  then  looked  about  in  the  room,  and  the 
first  object  she  saw  was  a  great  book-shelf.  There 
were  so  many  books  that  she  did  not  think  the  clergy- 
man had  more.  A  cupboard  was  standing  near  to 
the  shelf,  and  down  here  he  had  his  money.  Twice 
they  had  inherited,  said  the  mother,  and  they  ought 
also  to  take  a  third  inheritance  if  everything  went 
on  as  it  ought  to  do.  *'  But  money  is  not  the  best 
thing  in  the  world.  He  might  get  what  was  much 
better."    There  were  many  little  things  interesting  to 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSON 

look  at  in  this  cupboard,  and  Eli  looked  at  them  all 
as  joyfully  as  a  child.  Then  the  mother  showed  her 
a  big  chest  where  all  his  gear  was  lying.  This  chest 
they  also  opened  and  looked  at.  Margit  patted  her 
on  her  shoulder,  saying,  "  I  have  not  seen  you  before 
to-day,  but  I  love  you  already  so  much,  my  child,** 
and  she  looked  kindly  into  her  eyes.  Before  Eli 
had  time  to  be  a  little  abashed  Margit  pulled  her 
dress,  saying  quite  slowly,  "  There  you  see  a  little 
red-painted  box;  you  may  be  sure  there  is  something 
strange  in  it."  Eli  looked  at  it:  it  was  a  little 
square  box,  that  she  should  like  very  much  to  have. 
"  He  does  not  want  me  to  know  what  is  in  it,"  whis- 
pered the  mother,  "  and  he  hides  away  the  key  every 
time."  She  went  to  some  clothes  that  were  hanging 
on  the  wall,  took  down  a  velvet  waistcoat,  looked  in 
the  watchpocket,  and  there  was  the  key  lying. 
**  Come  now,  and  you  shall  see,"  whispered  she. 
They  went  quite  slowly  and  placed  themselves  on 
their  knees  before  the  box.  At  the  same  time  as 
the  mother  opened  the  lid  a  delightful  perfume  arose 
out  of  it,  so  Eli  beat  her  hands  together  before  she 
had  yet  seen  anything.  Uppermost  there  lay  a  hand- 
kerchief spread  out,  which  the  mother  took  aside. 
"Look  here,"  whispered  she,  taking  up  a  fine  black 
silk  handkerchief,  not  such  a  one  as  men  wear.  "  It 
looks  just  as  if  it  were  for  a  girl,"  said  the  mother. 
Eli  spread  it  out  over  her  lap,  looking  at  it,  but  did 
not  say  a  word.  "  Here  is  one  more,"  said  the  mother. 
Eli  took  it, — she  could  not  help  herself;  but  the 
mother  must  try  it  on  her,  though  Eli  did  not 
like  it,  and  bent  her  head.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  would  give  for  such  a  handkerchief,  but  yet  it 
was  not  this  she  was  thinking  of.  They  put  them 
together  again,  but  slowly.  "  Here  you  shall  see," 
said  the  mother,  taking  up  some  nice  silk  ribbands. 
**It  all  looks  as  if  it  were  for  a  girl."  Eli  turned 
fiery    red,    but    was    silent.      "  Here    is    something 

294> 


ARNE 

more;"  the  mother  now  took  up  a  nice  black  dress. 
**  I'm  sure  that's  fine,"  said  she,  holding  it  up 
towards  daylight.  Eli's  hands  trembled  a  little, 
her  chest  was  rising,  she  felt  the  blood  rushing  up 
to  her  head,  she  would  like  to  turn  away,  but  that 
would  not  do.  "  He  has  bought  something  every 
time  he  has  been  to  town,"  said  the  mother.  Eli  was 
scarcely  able  to  stand  it  an}^  longer,  her  eyes  ran 
from  one  thing  to  another  in  the  box  and  turned 
again  to  the  dress.  She  was  burning  hot  in  the  face. 
The  last  thing  the  mother  took  up  was  lying  in  a 
paper,  which  they  removed;  it  was  a  pair  of  small 
shoes.  They  had  never  seen  anything  like  these 
shoes,  any  of  them.  The  mother  said  she  did  not 
think  they  could  be  worked.  Eli  did  not  say  a 
word,  but  when  she  took  the  shoes  in  her  hand  all 
her  five  fingers  were  seen  marked  on  them.  "  I  am 
in  a  perspiration,  I  see,"  whispered  she,  drying  her- 
self. The  mother  laid  the  things  to  rights  again. 
*'  Does  it  not  look  quite  as  if  he  had  bought  these  all 
little  by  little  for  one  he  dared  not  give  them  to?" 
said  she,  looking  at  Eli;  "in  the  meantime  he  seems 
to  have  put  them  here  in  the  box."  She  replaced 
ever\i:hing  carefully.  "  Now  we  shall  see  what  there 
is  here  in  this  small  compartment  at  the  end  of  the 
box."  She  opened  it  very  slowly,  as  if  she  should 
see  something  very  nice.  There  was  lying  a  buckle 
wide  and  broad  as  if  for  a  waistband.  This  was  the 
first  think  Eli  saw;  then  she  saw  a  couple  of  gold 
rings  tied  together,  and  then  a  psalm-book  bound  in 
velvet  with  silver  clasps,  but  she  could  not  see  any 
more,  for  she  had  seen  pricked  in  on  the  silver  of 
the  psalm-book  with  very  fine  letters,  "  Eli  Boen." 
The  mother  wanted  her  to  look  again,  but  got  no  an- 
swer, and  presently  saw  tears  rolling  down  her 
cheeks.  Then  the  mother  laid  down  the  buckle  she 
had  been  keeping  in  her  hand,  shut  again  this  little 
compartment,  turned  to  Eli,  and  took  her  to  her 

995 


BJORNSTJERNE    BJORNSON 

bosom.  Then  the  daughter  wept,  and  the  mother  cried 
over  her  without  any  of  them  saying  anything  more. 
Some  while  after  this  Eli  walked  by  herself  in  the 
garden;  the  mother  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  as  she 
had  something  nice  to  prepare,  for  now  Arne  would 
be  coming.  Afterwards  she  went  out  to  look  at  Eli 
in  the  garden;  she  was  sitting  cowering  down  there 
writing  names  in  the  sand  with  a  stick.  She  was 
sweeping  it  out  when  Margit  came;  she  looked  up 
and  smiled ;  she  had  been  crying.  "  Nothing  to  cry 
for,  my  child,"  said  Margit,  patting  her  cheek. 
"  Now  supper  is  ready,  and  Arne  will  be  coming." 
They  saw  something  black  between  the  bushes  up 
on  the  road,  Eli  stole  in,  the  mother  following  her. 
Here  was  a  great  laying  out  of  the  table  with  cream 
pudding,  smoked  bacon,  and  fancy  bread,  but  Eli 
did  not  look  at  it;  she  sat  down  on  a  chair  yonder 
near  the  clock,  trembling  if  she  only  heard  a  cat 
move.  The  mother  stood  at  the  table.  Quick  and 
manly  steps  were  heard  outside  on  the  stone-flags, 
a  short  and  easy  step  in  the  passage,  the  door  opened, 
and  Arne  entered.  The  first  thing  he  saw  was  Eli 
yonder  near  the  clock.  He  let  go  the  handle  of  the 
door  and  stood  still.  This  made  Eli  still  more  em- 
barassed.  She  rose,  repented  it  immediately,  and 
turned  towards  the  wall.  "Are  you  here?"  said 
Arne,  and  became  fiery  red  as  soon  as  he  had  said 
these  words.  She  lifted  up  one  of  her  hands,  as 
when  the  sun  shines  too  strong  in  the  eyes.  "  How 
are  you  come  here?"  said  he,  making  a  step  or  two. 
She  dropped  the  hand,  turned  a  little  towards  him, 
but  bent  her  head,  and  burst  into  violent  tears.  "Why 
do  you  cry,  Eli?"  asked  he,  going  up  to  her.  She 
did  not  answer,  but  cried  more.  "  God  bless  you, 
Eli !"  said  he,  putting  his  hand  round  her  waist.  She 
leaned  upon  him.  He  whispered  something  into  her 
ear;  she  did  not  answer,  but  took  him  round  his 
neck  with  both  her  hands. 

296 


ARNE 

A  long  time  did  they  remain  thus ;  not  a  sound  was 
heard  save  from  the  waterfall,  that  sang  its  eternal 
song,  distant  and  quiet.  Then  there  was  somebody 
who  cried  near  the  table.  Arne  looked  up;  it  was 
his  mother,  whom  he  had  not  seen  before.  "  Now  I 
am  sure  you  will  not  leave  me,  Arne!"  said  she, 
going  towards  him;  she  cried  much,  but  it  did  her 
good,  she  said. 


307 


RICHARD  D.  BLACKMORE 

Richard  Doddridge  Blackmore,  novelist,  born  at 
Longworth,  England,  in  1825 ;  died  1900.  He  began 
the  practice  of  law  in  1852.  He  devoted  himself  to 
writing  in  1862.  Although  he  wrote  many  poems 
and  translated  much  from  the  classics,  it  is  on  his 
novels,  especially  that  of  "  Lorna  Doone,"  on  which 
his  fame  rests.  This  novel  is  one  of  the  greatest 
produced  in  the  nineteenth  century,  and  the  Exmoor 
country  owes  its  fascination  to  thousands  of  visitors 
from  the  glamor  of  romance  thrown  over  it  by  his 
pen.  "  Cripps  the  Carrier,"  "  Springhaven "  and 
"  Perlycross "    perhaps  rank  next  in  importance. 

IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

(From  "  Lorna  Doone  ") 

WHEN  I  started  on  my  road  across  the  hills 
and  valleys  (which  now  were  pretty  much 
alike),  the  utmost  I  could  hope  to  do  was  to  gain 
the  crest  of  hills,  and  look  into  the  Doone  Glen. 
Hence  I  might  at  least  descry  whether  Lorna  still 
was  safe,  by  the  six  nests  still  remaining  (a  signal 
arranged  by  the  lovers),  and  the  view  of  the  Cap- 
tain's house.  When  I  was  come  to  the  open  country, 
far  beyond  the  sheltered  homestead,  and  in  the  full 
brunt  of  the  wind,  the  keen  blast  of  the  cold  broke 
on  me,  and  the  mighty  breadth  of  snow.  Moor  and 
highland,  field  and  common,  cliff  and  vale,  and 
watercourse,  over  all  the  rolling  folds  of  misty  white 
were  flung.  There  was  nothing  square  or  jagged 
left,  there  was  notliing  perpendicular ;  all  the  rugged 
lines  were  eased,  and  all  the  breaches  smoothly  filled. 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEV 

Curves,  and  mounds,  and  rounded  hearings  took  the 
place  of  rock  and  stump;  and  all  the  country  lookect 
as  if  a  woman's  hand  had  been  on  it. 

Through  the  sparkling  breadth  of  white,  wlucb 
seemed  to  glance  my  eyes  away,  and  past- the  humps 
of  laden  trees,  bowing  their  backs  like  a  woodman,  I 
contrived  to  get  along,  half  sliding  and  half  walk- 
ing, in  places  where  a  plain-shodden  man  must  have 
sunk,  and  waited,  freezing,  till  the  thaw  should  come 
to  him.  For  although  there  had  been  such  violent 
frost  every  night  upon  the  snow,  the  snow  itself 
having  never  thawed  even  for  an  hour,  had  never 
coated  over.  Hence  it  was  as  soft  and  light  as  if 
all  had  fallen  yesterday.  In  places  where  no  drift 
had  been,  but  rather  off  than  on  to  them,  three  feet 
was  the  least  of  depth;  but  where  the  wind  had 
chased  it  round,  or  any  draught  led  like  a  funnel, 
or  anything  opposed  it,  there  you  might  very  safely 
say  that  it  ran  up  to  twenty  feet,  or  thirty,  or  even 
fifty,  and  I  believe  sometimes  a  hundred. 

At  last  I  got  to  my  spy-hill  (as  I  had  begun  to 
call  it),  although  I  never  should  have  known  it  but 
for  what  it  looked  on.  And  even  to  now  this  last 
again  required  all  the  eyes  of  love,  soever  sharp  and 
vigilant.  For  all  the  beautiful  Glen  Doone  (shaped 
from  out  the  mountains,  as  if  on  purpose  for  the 
Doones,  and  looking  in  the  summer-time  like  a 
sharp-cut  vase  of  green  now  was  besnowed  half 
up  the  sides,  and  at  either  end,  so  that  it  was  more 
like  the  white  basins  wherein  we  boil  plum-puddings. 
Kot  a  patch  of  grass  was  there,  not  a  black  branch 
of  a  tree;  all  was  white;  and  the  little  river  flowed 
beneath  an  arch  of  snow,  if  it  managed  to  flow 
at  all. 

Now  this  was  a  great  surprise  to  me;  not  only 
because  I  believed  Glen  Doone  to  be  a  place  out- 
side all  frost,  but  also  because  I  thought  perhaps 
that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  be  cold  near  Lorna. 

299 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

And  now  it  struck  me  all  at  once  that  perhaps  her 
ewer  was  frozen  (as  mine  had  been  for  the  last  three 
weeks,  requiring  embers  around  it),  and  perhaps  her 
window  would  not  shut,  any  more  than  mine  would; 
and  perhaps  she  wanted  blankets.  This  idea  worked 
me  up  to  such  a  chill  of  sympathy,  that  seeing  no 
Doones  now  about,  and  doubting  if  any  guns  would 
go  off  in  this  state  of  the  weather,  and  knowing 
that  no  man  could  catch  me  up  (except  with  shoes 
like  mine),  I  even  resolved  to  slide  the  cliffs,  and 
bravely  go  to  Lorna. 

It  helped  me  much  in  this  resolve,  that  the  snow 
came  on  again,  thick  enough  to  blind  a  man  who 
had  not  spent  his  time  among  it,  as  I  had  done  now 
for  days  and  days.  Therefore  I  took  my  neatsfoot 
oil,  which  now  was  clogged  like  honey,  and  rubbed  it 
hard  into  my  leg-joints,  so  far  as  I  could  reach 
them.  And  then  I  set  my  back  and  elbows  well 
against  a  snow-drift,  hanging  far  adown  the  cliff, 
and  saying  some  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  threw  my- 
self on  Providence.  Before  there  was  time  to  think 
or  dream,  I  landed  very  beautifully  upon  a  ridge 
of  run-up  snow  in  a  quiet  corner.  My  good  shoes, 
or  boots,  preserved  me  from  going  far  beneath  it; 
though  one  of  them  was  sadly  strained,  where  a 
grub  had  gnawed  the  ash,  in  the  early  summer  time. 
Having  set  myself  aright,  and  being  in  good  spirits, 
I  made  boldly  across  the  valley  (where  the  snow  was 
furrowed  hard),  being  now  afraid  of  nobody. 

If  Lorna  had  looked  out  of  the  window,  she  would 
not  have  known  me,  with  those  boots  upon  my  feet, 
and  a  well-cleaned  sheepskin  over  me,  bearing  my 
own  (J.  R.)  in  red,  just  between  my  shoulders,  but 
covered  now  in  snowflakes.  The  house  was  partly 
drifted  up,  though  not  so  much  as  ours  was;  and  I 
crossed  the  little  stream  almost  without  knowing 
that  it  was  under  me.  At  first,  being  pretty  safe 
against  interference  from  the  other  huts,  by  virtue 

300 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

of  the  blinding  snow  and  the  difficulty  of  walking,  I 
examined  all  the  windows,  but  these  were  coated  so 
with  ice,  like  ferns  and  flowers  and  dazzling  stars, 
that  no  one  could  so  much  as  guess  what  might  be 
inside  of  them.  Moreover  I  was  afraid  of  prying 
narrowly  into  them,  as  it  was  not  a  proper  thing 
where  a  maiden  might  be:  only  I  wanted  to  know 
just  this,  whether  she  were  there  or  not. 

Taking  nothing  by  this  movement,  I  was  forced, 
much  against  my  will,  to  venture  to  the  door  and 
knock,  in  a  hesitating  manner,  not  being  sure  but 
what  my  answer  might  be  the  mouth  of  a  carbine. 
However,  it  was  not  so,  for  I  heard  a  pattering  of 
feet  and  a  whispering  going  on,  and  then  a  shrill 
voice  through  the  keyhole,  asking,  "  Who's  there?  " 

"Only  me,  John  Ridd,"  I  answered;  upon  which 
I  heard  a  little  laughter,  and  a  little  sobbing,  or 
something  that  was  like  it;  and  then  the  door  was 
opened  about  a  couple  of  inches,  with  a  bar  behind 
it  still;    and  then  the  little  voice  went  on: 

"  Put  thy  finger  in,  young  man,  with  the  old  ring 
on  it.  But  mind  thee,  if  it  be  the  wrong  one,  thou 
shalt  never  draw  it  back  again." 

Laughing  at  Gwenny's  mighty  threat,  I  showed 
my  finger  in  the  opening:  upon  which  she  let  me  in, 
and  barred  the  door  again  like  lightning. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  Gwenny "  I 
asked,  as  I  slipped  about  on  the  floor,  for  I  could 
not  stand  there  firmly  with  my  great  snow-shoes 
on. 

"  Maning  enough,  and  bad  maning,  too,"  the  Cor- 
nish girl  made  answer.  "  I\s  be  shut  in  here,  and 
starving,  and  dursn't  let  anybody  in  upon  us.  I  wish 
thou  wer't  good  to  ate,  young  man:  I  could  manage 
most  of  thee." 

I  was  so  frightened  by  her  eyes,  full  of  wolfish 
hunger,  that  I  could  only  say,  "  Good  God ! "  having 
never  seen  the  like  before.     Then  drew  I    forth  a 

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RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

large  piece  of  bread,  which  I  had  brought  in  case 
of  accidents,  and  placed  it  in  her  hands.  She  leaped 
at  it,  as  a  starving  dog  leaps  at  sight  of  his  supper, 
and  she  set  her  teeth  in  it,  and  then  withheld  it  from 
her  lips,  with  something  very  like  an  oath  at  her 
own  vile  greediness;  and  then  away  round  the  cor- 
ner with  it,  no  doubt  for  her  young  mistress.  I 
meanwhile  was  occupied,  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
in  taking  my  snow-shoes  oif,  yet  wondering  much 
within  myself  why  Lorna  did  not  come  to  me. 

But  presently  I  knew  the  cause,  for  Gwenny 
called  me,  and  I  ran,  and  found  my  darling  quite 
unable  to  say  so  much  as,  "John,  how  are  you?" 
Between  the  hunger,  and  the  cold,  and  the  excite- 
ment of  my  coming,  she  had  fainted  away,  and  lay 
back  on  a  chair,  as  white  as  the  snow  around  us. 
In  betwixt  her  delicate  lips,  Gwenny  was  thrusting 
with  all  her  strength  the  hard  brown  crust  of  the 
rye-bread,  which  she  had  snatched  from  me  so. 

"  Get  water,  or  get  snow,"  I  said ;  "  don't  you 
know  what  fainting  is,  you  very  stupid  child?" 

"  Never  heered  on  it,  in  Carnwall,"  she  answered, 
trusting  still  to  the  bread:  "be  un  the  same  as 
bleeding?  " 

"  It  will  be  directly,  if  you  go  on  squeezing  away 
with  that  crust  so.  Eat  a  piece;  I  have  got  some 
more.    Leave  my  darling  now  to  me." 

Hearing  that  I  had  some  more,  the  starving  girl 
could  resist  no  longer,  but  tore  it  in  two,  and  had 
swallowed  half  before  I  had  coaxed  my  Lorna  back 
to  sense,  and  hope,  and  joy,  and  love. 

"  I  never  expected  to  see  you  again.  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  die,  John;  and  to  die  without  jour 
knowing  it." 

As  I  repelled  this  fearful  thought  in  a  manner 
highly  fortifying,  the  tender  hue  flowed  back  again 
into  her  famished  checks  and  lips,  and  a  softer 
brilliance  glistened  from  the  depth  of  her  dark  eyes. 

302 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

She  gave  me  one  little  shrunken  hand,  and  I  could 
not  help  a  tear  for  it. 

"  After  all,  Mistress  Lorna,"  I  said,  pretending 
to  be  gay,  for  a  smile  might  do  her  good;  "you  do 
not  love  me  as  G^^enny  does;  for  she  even  wanted 
to  eat  me." 

"  And  shall,  afore  I  have  done,  young  man," 
Gwenny  answered,  laughing;  ''you  come  in  here 
with  they  red  chakes,  and  make  us  think  o'  girloin." 

"  Eat  up  your  bit  of  brown  bread,  Gwenny.  It  is 
not  good  enough  for  your  mistress.  Bless  her  heart ! 
I  have  something  here  such  as  she  never  tasted  the 
like  of,  being  in  such  appetite.  Look  here,  Lorna; 
smell  it,  first.  I  have  had  it  ever  since  Twelfth-day, 
and  kept  it  all  the  time  for  you.  Annie  made  it. 
That  is  enough  to  warrant  it  good  cooking." 

And  then  I  showed  my  great  mince  pie  in  a  bag 
of  tissue  paper,  and  I  told  them  how  the  mince-meat 
was  made  of  golden  pippins  finely  shred,  with  the 
undercut  of  the  sirloin,  and  spice  and  fruit  accord- 
ingly and  far  beyond  my  knowledge.  But  Lorna 
would  not  touch  a  morsel  until  she  had  thanked 
Cod  for  it,  and  given  me  the  kindest  kiss,  and 
put  a  piece  in  Gwenny's  mouth. 

I  have  eaten  many  things  myself,  with  very  great 
enjoyment,  and  keen  perception  of  their  merits,  and 
some  thanks  to  God  for  them.  But  I  never  did  en- 
joy a  thing  that  had  found  its  way  between  my  own 
lips,  half  or  even  a  quarter  as  much  as  I  now  en- 
joyed beholding  Lorna,  sitting  proudly  upwards  (to 
show  that  she  was  faint  no  more)  entering  into  that 
mince  pie,  and  moving  all  her  pearls  of  teeth  (in- 
side her  little  mouth-place)  exactly  as  I  told  her. 
For  I  was  afraid  lest  she  should  be  too  fast  in 
going  through  it,  and  cause  herself  more  damage  so, 
than  she  got  of  nourishment.  But  I  had  no  need  to 
fear  at  all,  and  Lorna  could  not  help  laughing  at 
me  for  thinking  that  she  had  no  self-control. 

303 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

Some  creatures  require  a  deal  of  food  (I  myself 
among  the  number),  and  some  can  do  with  a  very 
little;  making,  no  doubt,  the  best  of  it.  And  I  have 
often  noticed  that  the  plumpest  and  most  perfect 
women  never  eat  so  hard  and  fast  as  the  skinny 
and  three-cornered  ones.  These  last  be  often 
ashamed  of  it,  and  eat  most  when  the  men  be  absent. 
Hence  it  came  to  pass  that  Lorna,  being  the  loveliest 
of  all  maidens,  had  as  much  as  she  could  do  to  finish 
her  own  half  of  pie;  whereas  Gwenny  Carfax 
(though  generous  more  than  greedy)  ate  up  hers 
without  winking,  after  finishing  the  brown  loaf;  and 
then  I  begged  to  know  the  meaning  of  this  state  of 
things. 

"  The  meaning  is  sad  enough,"  said  Lorna ;  "  and 
I  see  no  way  out  of  it.  We  are  both  to  be  starved 
until  I  let  them  do  what  they  like  with  me." 

"  That  is  tt*  say,  until  you  choose  to  marry  Carver 
Doone,  and  be  slowly  killed  by  him." 

"  Slowly !  No,  John,  quickly.  I  hate  him  sc» 
intensely,  that  less  than  a  week  would  kill  me." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  that,"  said  Gwenny;  oh,  she 
hates  him  nicely  then:  but  not  half  so  much  as 
I  do." 

I  told  them  both  that  this  state  of  things  could  be 
endured  no  longer ;  on  which  point  they  agreed  with 
me,  but  saw  no  means  to  help  it.  For  even  if 
Lorna  could  make  up  her  mind  to  come  away  with 
me  and  live  at  Plover's  Barrows  farm,  under  my 
good  mother's  care,  as  I  had  urged  so  often,  behold 
the  snow  was  all  around  us,  heaped  as  high  as  moun- 
tains,  and  how  could  any  delicate  maiden  ever  get 
across  it? 

Then  I  spoke,  with  a  strange  tingle  upon  both 
ff'des  of  my  heart,  knowing  that  this  undertaking 
was  a  serious  one  for  all,  and  might  burn  our  farm 
down, — 

If  I  warrant  to  take  you  safe,  and  without  macb 

S04, 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

fright  or  hardship,  Lorna,  will  you  come  with  me? 

"To  be  sure  I  will,  dear,"  siid  my  beauty  with  a 
smile,  and  a  glance  to  follow  it,  "  I  have  small  alter- 
native, to  starve,  or  go  with  you,  John." 

"  Gwenny,  have  you  courage  for  it?  Will  you 
come  with  your  young  mistress?" 

"  Will  I  stay  behind  ?  "  cried  Gwenny,  in  a  voice 
that  settled  it.  And  so  we  began  to  arrange  about 
it;  and  I  was  much  excited.  It  was  useless  now  to 
^'^nve  it  longer;  if  it  could  be  done  at  all,  it  could 
'  lus  be  too  quickly  done.  It  was  the  Counsellor  who 
•4"  Td  ordered,  after  all  other  schemes  had  failed,  that 
his  niece  should  have  no  food  until  she  would  obey 
him.  He  had  strictly  watched  the  house,  taking 
turns  with  Carver,  to  insure  that  none  came  nigh  it 
bearing  food  or  comfort.  But  this  evening,  they 
had  thought  it  needless  to  remain  on  guard;  and  it 
would  have  been  impossible,  because  themselves  were 
busy  offering  high  festival  to  all  the  valley,  in  right 
of  their  own  comma ndership.  And  Gwenny  said  that 
nothing  made  her  so  nearly  mad  with  appetite  as  the 
account  she  received  from  a  woman  of  all  the 
dishes  preparing.  Nevertheless  she  had  answered 
bravely, — 

*'  Go  and  tell  the  Counsellor,  and  go  and  tell  the 
Carver,  who  sent  you  to  spy  upon  us,  that  we  shall 
have  a  finer  dish  than  any  set  before  them."  And 
so  in  truth  they  did,  although  so  little  dreaming  it; 
for  no  Doone  that  was  ever  born,  however  much  of 
a  Carver,  might  vie  with  ou?  Annie  for  mince-meat. 

Now  while  we  sat,  reflecting  much,  and  talking  a 
good  deal  more,  in  spite  of  all  the  cold, — for  I  never 
was  in  a  hurry  to  go,  when  I  had  Lorna  with  me, — 
she  said,  in  her  silvery  voice,  which  always  led  me  so 
along,  as  if  I  were  slave  to  a  beautiful  bell, — 

"  Now,  John,  we  are  wasting  time,  dear.  You 
have  praised  my  hair,  till  it  curls  with  pride,  and 
my  eyes  till  you  cannot  see  them,  even  if  tliey  are 

305 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

brown  diamonds,  which  I  have  heard  for  the  fiftieth 
time  at  least;  though  I  never  saw  such  a  jeweL 
Don't  you  think  that  it  is  high  time  to  put  on  your 
snow-shoes,  John?'* 

"  Certainly  not,''  I  answered,  "  till  we  have  settled 
something  more.  I  was  so  cold,  when  I  came  in; 
and  now  I  am  as  warm  as  a  cricket.  And  so  are  you, 
you  lively  soul;  though  you  are  not  upon  my  hearth 

yet." 

"  Remember,  John,"  said  Lorna,  nestling  for- ji 
moment  to  me;  "the  severity  of  the  weather  mi^eu 
a  great  difference  between  us.  And  you  must  never 
take  advantage." 

"  I  quite  understand  all  that,  dear.  And  the 
harder  it  freezes  the  better,  while  that  understand- 
ing continues.    Now  do  try  to  be  serious." 

"  I  try  to  be  serious !  And  I  have  been  trying 
fifty  times,  and  could  not  bring  you  to  it,  John, 
Although  I  am  sure  the  situation,  as  the  Counsellor 
always  says,  at  the  beginning  of  a  speech,  the  situ- 
ation, to  say  the  least,  is  serious  enough  for  any- 
thing.    Come,  Gwenny,  imitate  him." 

Gwenny  was  famed  for  her  imitation  of  the  Coun- 
sellor making  a  speech;  and  she  began  to  shake  her 
hair,  and  mount  upon  a  foot-stool;  but  I  really 
could  not  have  this,  though  even  Lorna  ordered  it. 
The  truth  was  that  my  darling  maiden  was  in  such 
wild  spirits  at  seeing  me  so  unexpected,  and  at  the 
prospect  of  release,  and  of  what  she  had  never 
known,  quiet  life  and  happiness,  that,  like  all  warm 
and  loving  natures,  she  could  scarce  control  herself. 

"  Come  to  this  frozen  window,  John,  and  see  them 
light  the  stack  fire.  They  will  little  know  who  looks 
at  them.  Now  be  very  good,  John.  You  stay  in  that 
corner,  dear,  and  I  will  stand  on  this  side;  and  try 
to  breathe  yourself  a  peep-hole  through  the  lovely 
spears  and  banners.  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  to  do 
it.    I  must  do  it  for  you.    Breathe  three  times,  like 

306 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

that,  and  that;  and  then  you  rub  it  with  jour  fingers, 
before  it  has  time  to  freeze  again." 

All  this  she  did  so  beautifully,  with  her  lips  put  up 
like  cherries  and  her  fingers  bent  half  l)ack,  as  only 
girls  can  bend  them,  and  her  little  waist  thrown  out 
against  the  white  of  tlie  snowed-up  window,  that  I 
made  her  do  it  three  times  over;  and  I  stopped  her 
every  time,  and  let  it  freeze  again,  that  so  she  might 
be  the  longer.  Now  I  knew  that  all  her  love  was 
mine,  every  bit  as  much  as  mine  was  hers;  yet  I 
must  have  her  to  show  it,  dwelling  upon  every  proof, 
lengthening  out  all  certainty.  Perhaps  the  jealous 
heart  is  loth  to  own  a  life  worth  twice  its  own.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  I  know  that  we  thawed  the  window 
nicely. 

And  then  I  saw,  far  down  the  stream  (or  rather 
down  the  bed  of  it,  for  there  was  no  stream  visible), 
a  little  form  of  fire  arising,  red,  and  dark,  and 
flickering.  Presently  it  caught  on  something  and 
went  upward  boldly;  and  then  it  struck  into  many 
forks,  and  then  it  fell  and  rose  again. 

"Do  you  know  what  all  that  is,  John?"  asked 
Lorna,  smiling  cleverly  at  the  manner  of  my  staring. 

"How  on  earth  should  I  know?  Papists  burn 
Protestants  in  the  flesh;  and  Protestants  burn  Pa- 
pists in  effigy,  as  we  mock  them.  Lorna,  are  they 
going  to  burn  any  one  to-night?  " 

"  No,  you  dear.  I  must  rid  you  of  these  things. 
I  see  that  you  are  bigoted.  The  Doones  are  firing 
Dunkery  beacon  to  celebrate  their  new  captain." 

"  But  how  could  they  bring  it  here  through  the 
snow?     If  they  have  sledges,  I  can  do  nothing." 

"They  brought  it  before  the  snow  began.  The 
moment  poor  grandfather  was  gone,  even  before  his 
funeral,  the  young  men,  having  none  to  check  them, 
began  at  once  upon  it.  They  had  always  borne  a 
grudge  against  it:  not  that  it  ever  did  them  harms 
but  because  it  seemed  so  insolent.     '  Can't  a  gentle- 

soy 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

man  go  home  without  a  smoke  behind  him?'  I  have 
often  heard  them  saying.  And  though  they  have 
done  it  no  serious  harm,  since  they  threw  the  firemen 
on  the  fire,  many,  many  years  ago  they  have  often 
promised  to  bring  it  here  for  their  candle,  and  now 
they  have  done  it.  Ah,  now  look!  The  tar  is  kin- 
dled." 

Though  Lorna  took  it  so  in  joke,  I  looked  upon 
it  very  gravely,  knowing  that  this  heavy  outrage  to 
the  feelings  of  the  neighborhood  would  cause  more 
stir  than  a  hundred  sheep  stolen,  or  a  score  of 
houses  sacked.  Not  of  course  that  the  beacon  was 
of  the  smallest  use  to  any  one,  neither  stopped  any- 
body from  stealing:  nay,  rather  it  was  like  the 
parish-knell,  which  begins  when  all  is  over,  and 
depresses  all  the  survivors;  yet  I  knew  that  we 
valued  it,  and  were  proud,  and  spoke  of  it  as  a 
mighty  institution;  and  even  more  than  that,  our 
vestry  had  voted,  within  the  last  two  years,  seven 
shillings  and  sixpence  to  pay  for  it,  in  proportion 
with  other  parishes.  And  one  of  the  men  who  at- 
tended to  it,  or  at  least  who  was  paid  for  doing  so, 
was  our  Jem  Slocombe's  grandfather. 

However,  in  spite  of  all  my  regrets,  the  fire  went 
up  very  merrily,  blazing  red,  and  white,  and  yellow, 
as  it  leaped  on  different  things.  And  the  light 
danced  on  the  snowdrifts  with  a  misty  lilac  hue.  I 
was  astonished  at  its  burning  in  such  mighty  depths 
of  snow;  but  Gwenny  said  that  the  wicked  wen  had 
been  three  days  hard  at  work,  clearing,  as  it  were,  a 
cock-pit,  for  their  fire  to  have  its  way.  And  now 
they  had  a  mighty  pile,  which  must  have  covered 
five  landyards  square,  heaped  up  to  a  goodly  height 
and  eager  to  take  fire. 

In  this  I  saw  a  great  obstacle  to  what  I  wished  to 

manage.     For  when  this  pyramid  should  be  kindled 

thoroughly,   and   pouring   light    and   blazes    round, 

would  not  all  the  valley  be  like  a  white  room  full  of 

808 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

eandles?  Thinking  thus,  I  was  half  inclined  to 
abide  my  time  for  another  night;  and  then  my 
second   thoughts   convinced   me   that    I    would   be   a 

I  fool  in  tliis.  For  lo,  what  an  opportunity!  All  the 
Doones  would  be  drunk  of  course,  in  about  three 

1  hours  time,  and  getting  more  and  more  in  drink  as 
the  night  went  on.  As  for  the  fire,  it  must  sink  in 
about  three  hours  or  more,  and  only  cast  uncertain 
shadows  friendly  to  my  purpose.  And  then  the  out- 
laws must  cower  round  it,  as  the  cold  increased  on 

?  them,  helping  the  weight  of  the  liquor;  and  in  their 

'  jollity  any  noise  would  be  cheered  as  a  false  alarm. 
Most  of  all,  ana  which  decided  once  for  all  my 
action,  when  these  wild  and  reckless  villains  should 
be  hot  with  ardent  spirits,  what  was  door,  or  wall, 
to  stand  betwixt  them  and  my  Lorna? 

This  thought  quickened  me  so  much  that  I  touched 
mr  darling  reverently,  and  told  her  in  a  few  short 
words  how  I  hoped  to  manage  it. 

"  Sweetest,  in  two  hours'  time  I  shall  be  again 
with  you.  Keep  the  bar  up  and  have  Gwenny 
ready  to  answer  any  one.  You  are  safe  while  they 
are  dining,  dear,  and  drinking  healths,  and  all  that 
stuff;  and  before  they  have  done  with  that  I  shall 
be  again  with  you.  Have  everything  you  care  to 
take  in  a  very  little  compass;  and  Gwenny  must 
have  no  baggage.  I  shall  knock  loud,  and  then  wait 
a  little;  and  then  knock  twice,  very  softly." 

With  this  I  folded  her  in  my  arms ;  and  she  looked 
frightened  at  me,  not  having  perceived  her  danger; 
and  then  I  told  Gwenny  over  again  what  I  had  told 
her  mistress;  but  she  only  nodded  her  head  and 
said,  "  Young  man,  go  and  teach  thy  grandmother.** 
To  my  great  delight  I  found  that  the  weather,  not 
often  friendly  to  lovers,  and  lately  seeming  so  hos- 
tile, had  in  the  most  important  matter  done  me  a 
signal  service.  For  when  I  had  promised  to  take 
my  love  from  the  power  of  those  wretches,  the  only 

309 


i 

RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE  \ 

I 

way   of  escape    apparently   lay   through   the   main  ■ 
Doone-gate.     For  though  I  might  climb  the  cliffs  \ 
myself,  especially  with  the  snow  to  aid  me,  I  durst  ? 
not  try  to  fetch  Lorna  up  them,  even  if  she  were  j 
not  half-starved  as  well  as  partly  frozen;  and  as  \ 
for  Gwenny's  door,  as  we  called  it  (that  is  to  say,  | 
the  little  entrance  from  the  wooded  hollow),  it  was 
snowed  up  long  ago  to  the  level  of  the  hills  around.  \ 
Therefore  I  was  at  my  wit's  end  how  to  get  them 
out;  the  passage  by  the  Doone-gate  being  long,  and  . 
dark,   and   difficult,   and   leading  to   such   a   weary 
circuit  among  the  snowy  moors  and  hills.  ; 

But  now,  being  homeward-bound  by  the  shortest  | 
possible  track,  I  slipped  along  between  the  bonfire  ) 
and  the  boundary  cliffs,  where  I  found  a  caved  way 
of  snow  behind  a  sort  of  avalanche:  so  that  if  the  i 
Doones  had  been  keeping  watch  (which  they  were  , 
not  doing,  but  reveling),  they  could  scarcely  have  | 
discovered  me.  And  when  I  came  to  my  old  ascent,  I 
where  I  had  often  scaled  the  cliff  and  made  across  I 
the  mountains,  it  struck  me  that  I  would  j  ust  have  a  j 
Aook  at  my  first  and  painful  entrance,  to  wit,  the  i 
water-slide.  I  never  for  a  moment  imagined  that 
this  could  help  me  now;  for  I  never  had  dared  to  j 
descend  it,  even  in  the  finest  weather;  still  I  had  a  j 
curiosity  to  know  what  my  old  friend  was  like  with  ] 
so  much  snow  upon  him.  But  to  my  very  great  sur-  ; 
prise,  there  was  scarcely  any  snow  there  at  all,  I 
though  plenty  curling  high  over  head  from  the  cliff 
like  bolsters  over  it.  Probably  the  sweeping  of  the  I 
northeast  wind  up  the  narrow  chasm  had  kept  the  i 
showers  from  blocking  it,  although  the  water  had  no  : 
power  under  the  bitter  grip  of  frost.  All  my  water-  ' 
slide  was  now  less  a  slide  than  path  of  ice;  fur-  . 
rowed  where  the  waters  ran  over  fluted  ridges;  ' 
seamed  where  wind  had  tossed  and  combed  them, 
even  while  congealing;  and  crossed  with  little  steps  I 
wherever  the  freezing  torrent  lingered.     And  here  ' 

310  i 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

and  there  the  ire  M-ns  fibred  with  Hie  trail  of  sludge- 
weed,  slanting  from  the  side,  and  niatted,  so  as  to 
make  resting  place. 

Lo  it  was  easy  track  and  channel,  as  if  for  the 
very  purpose  made,  down  which  I  could  guide  my 
sledge  with  Lorna  sitting  in  it.  There  were  only 
two  things  to  be  feared:  one  lest  the  rolls  of  snow 
above  should  fall  in  and  bury  us;  the  other  lest  we 
should  rush  too  fast,  and  so  be  carried  headlong 
into  the  black  whirlpool  at  the  bottom,  the  middle 
of  which  was  still  unfrozen,  and  looking  more  hor- 
rible by  the  contrast.  Against  this  danger  I  made 
provision,  by  fixing  a  stout  bar  across;  but  of  the 
other  we  must  take  our  chance,  and  trust  ourselves 
to  Providence. 

I  hastened  home  at  my  utmost  speed,  and  told 
my  mother  for  God's  sake  to  keep  the  house  up 
till  my  return,  and  to  have  plenty  of  fire  blazing, 
and  plenty  of  water  boiling,  and  food  enough  hot 
for  a  dozen  people,  and  the  best  bed  aired  with  the 
warming-pan.  Dear  mother  smiled  softly  at  my 
excitement,  though  her  own  was  not  much  less,  I  am 
sure,  and  enhanced  by  sore  anxiety.  Then  I  gave 
very  strict  directions  to  Annie,  and  praised  her  a 
little,  and  kissed  her;  and  I  even  endeavored  to 
flatter  Eliza,  lest  she  should  be  disagreeable. 

After  this  I  took  some  brandy,  both  within  and 
about  me;  the  former,  because  I  had  sharp  work  to 
do;  and  the  latter  in  fear  of  whatever  might  hap- 
pen, in  such  great  cold,  to  my  comrades.  Also  I 
carried  some  other  provisions,  grieving  much  at  their 
coldness;  and  then  I  went  to  the  upper  linhay  and 
took  our  new  light  pony-sled,  which  had  been  made 
almost  as  much  for  pleasure  as  for  business;  though 
God  only  knows  how  our  girls  could  have  found  any 
pleasure  in  bumping  along  so.  On  the  snow,  how- 
ever, it  ran  as  sweetly  as  if  it  had  been  made  for  it; 
yet  I  durst  not  take  the  pony  with  it;  in  the  first 

311 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 


place,  because  nis  hoofs  would  break  through  the  ] 
ever-shifting  surface  of  the  light  and  piling  snow;  \ 
and  secondly,  because  those  ponies,  coming  from  the  ! 
forest,  have  a  dreadful  trick   of  neighing,  and  most 
of  all  in  frosty  weather.  , 

Therefore  I  girded  my  own  body  with  a  dozen  ; 
turns  of  hay-rope,  twisting  both  the  ends  in  under  ; 
at  the  bottom  of  my  breast,  and  winding  the  hay 
on  the  skew  a  little,  that  the  hempen  thong  might 
not  slip  between,  and  so  cut  me  in  the  drawing. 
I  put  a  good  piece  of  spare  rope  in  the  sled,  and  the 
cross  seat  with  the  back  to  it,  which  was  stuffed 
with  our  own  wool,  as  well  as  two  or  three  fur  coats:  ; 
and  then  just  as  I  was  starting,  out  came  Annie,  ; 
in  spite  of  the  cold,  panting  for  fear  of  missing  me,  ' 
and  with  nothing  on  her  head,  but  a  lantern  in  one  : 
hand.  ! 

"  Oh,  John,  here  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  I  , 
Mother  has  never  shown  it  before;  and  I  can't  think  | 
how  she  could  make  up  her  mind.  She  had  gotten  | 
it  In  a  great  well  of  a  cupboard,  with  camphor,  and  , 
spirits,  and  lavender.  Lizzie  says  it  is  a  most  mag-  ' 
nificent  sealskin  cloak,  worthy  fifty  pounds,  or  a  , 
farthing."  ' 

"  At  any  rate  it  is  soft  and  warm,"  said  I,  very  j 
calmly  flinging  it  into  the  bottom  of  the  sled.  "  Tell  i 
mother  I  will  put  it  over  Lorna's  feet."  j 

"Lorna's  feet!    Oh,  you  great  fool,"  cried  Annie,  ' 
for  the  first  time  reviling  me.    "  Over  her  shoulders ; 
and  be  proud,  you  very  stupid  John." 

"  It  is  not  good  enough  for  her  feet,"  I  answered,  | 
with  strong  emphasis;  "but  don't  tell  mother  I  said  i 
so,  Annie.     Only  thank  her  very  kindly."  i 

With  that  I  drew  my  traces  hard,  and  set  my  \ 
ashen  staff"  into  the  snow,  and  struck  out  with  my  | 
best  foot  foremost  (the  best  one  at  snow-shoes,  I  j 
mean),  and  the  sled  came  after  me  as  lightly  as  a  \ 
dog   might    follow;    and    Annie    with   the    lantern 

919  I 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

seemed  to  be  left  behind  and  waiting,  like  a  pretty 
lamp-post. 

The  full  moon  rose  as  bright  behind  me  as  a  patin 

of  pure  silver,  casting  on  the  snow  long  shadows 

of  the   few  things  left  above,  burdened   rock,  and 

shaggy    foreland,   and   the   laboring   trees.     In  the 

great    white    desolation,    distance    was    a    mocking 

vision:    hills    looked    nigh    and    valleys    far;    when 

hills   were    far   and   valleys   nigh.      And   the   misty 

breath  of  frost,  piercing  through  the  ribs  of  rock, 

■  striking  to  the  pith  of  trees,  creeping  to  the  heart 

^  of  man,  lay  along  the  hollow  places,  like  a  serpent 

!  sloughing.     Even  as  my  own  gaunt  shadow   (traves- 

;  tied  as  if  I  were  the  moonlight's  daddy-loiig-legs) 

;  went  before  me  down  the  slope;  even  I,  the  shad- 

,  Gw's  master,  who  had  tried  in  vain  to  cough,  when 

coughing  brought  good  liquorice,  felt  a  pressure  on 

my  bosom  and  a  husking  in  my  throat. 

However,  I  went  on  quietly  and  at  a  very  tidy 
speed;  being  only  too  thankful  that  the  snow  had 
ceased  and  no  wind  as  yet  arisen.  And  from  the 
ring  of  low  white  vapor  girding  all  the  verge  of  sky, 
and  from  the  rosy  blue  above,  and  the  shafts  of 
starlight  set  upon  a  quivering  bow,  as  well  as  from 
the  moon  itself  and  the  light  behind  it,  having 
learned  the  signs  of  frost  from  its  bitter  twinges, 
I  knew  that  we  should  have  a  night  as  keen  as  ever 
England  felt.  Nevertheless,  I  had  work  enough  to 
keep  me  warm  if  I  managed  it.  The  question  was. 
Could  I  contrive  to  save  my  darling  from  it? 

Daring  not  to  risk  my  sled  by  any  fall  from  the 
valley-cliffs,  I  dragged  it  very  carefully  up  the 
steep  incline  of  ice,  through  the  narrow  chasm,  and 
so  to  the  very  brink  and  verge  where  first  I  had  seen 
my  Lorna,  in  the  fishing  days  of  boyhood.  As  then 
I  had  a  trident  fork,  for  sticking  of  the  loaches, 
so  now  I  had  a  strong  ash  stake,  to  lay  across 
from  rock  to  rock  and  break  the  speed  of  descend- 

312 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

Sng.  With  this  I  moored  the  sled  quite  safe,  at 
the  very  lip  of  the  chasm,  where  all  was  now  sub- 
stantial ice,  green  and  black  in  the  moonlight;  and 
then  I  set  off  up  the  valley,  skirting  along  one  side 
of  it. 

The   stack   fire    still   was   burning    strongly,   but 
with  more   of  heat  than  blaze;    and   many  of  the 
younger  Doones  were  playing  on  the  verge  of  it,  , 
the  children  making  rings  of  fire  and  their  mothers 
watching  them.     All  the  grave  and  reverend  war-, 
riors,  having  heard  of  rheumatism,  were  inside  of  ' 
log    and    stone,    in    the    two    lowest    houses,    with  r 
enough   of   candles   burning   to   make   our   list   of  j 
sheep  come  short.  i 

All  these  I  passed  without  the  smallest  risk  or  ) 
diflBculty,  walking  up  the  channel  of  drift  which  I  \ 
spoke  of  once  before.     And  then  I   crossed,  with  • 
more  of  care,  and  to  the  door  of  Lorna's  house, 
and  made  the  sign,  and  listened,  after  taking  mj 
snow-shoes  off. 

But  no  one  came,  as  I  expected,  neither  could  i 
espy  a  light.  And  I  seemed  to  hear  a  faint  low 
sound,  like  the  moaning  of  the  snow-wind.  Then  I 
knocked  again  more  loudly,  with  a  knocking  at  my 
heart;  and  receiving  no  answer,  set  all  my  power 
at  once  against  the  door.  In  a  moment  it  flew 
inwards  and  I  glided  along  the  passage  with  my 
feet  still  slippery.  There  in  Lorna's  room  I  saw, 
by  the  moonlight  flowing  in,  a  sight  which  drove 
me  beyond  sense. 

Lorna  was  behind  a  chair,  crouching  in  the  cor- 
ner, with  her  hands  up,  and  a  crucifix  or  some- 
thing that  looked  like  it.  In  the  middle  of  the  | 
room  lay  Gwenny  Carfax,  stupid,  yet  with  one  hand 
clutching  the  ankle  of  a  struggling  man.  Another 
man  stood  above  my  Lorna,  trying  to  draw  the 
chair  away.  In  a  moment  I  had  him  around  the 
waist,  and  he  went  out  of  the  window  with  a  mighty  j 
S14  j 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

crash   of  glass;   luckily   for   him   that   window  had 
J  no  bars  like  some  of  them.     Then  I  took  the  other 
'  man  by  the  neck,  and  he  could  not  plead  for  mercy. 
I  bore  him  out  of  the  house  as  lightly  as   I  would 
bear  a  baby,  yet  squeezing  his  throat  a  little  more 
:  than  I  fain  would  do  to  an  infant.     By  the  bright 
moonlight     I     saw    that     I     carried     Marwood     de 
Whichehalse.     For  his  father's  sake  I  spared  him, 
and    because    he    had    been    my    schoolfellow;    but 
.with  every  muscle  of  my  body  strung  with  indig- 
nation, I   cast  him,  like  a  skittle,  from  me  into   a 
^snowdrift,  which  closed  over  him.     Then   I   looked 
'  for  the  other   fellow,  tossed   through   Lorna's  win- 
dow;  and   found   him  lying  stunned   and   bleeding, 
neither  able  to  groan  j-et.     Charleworth  Doone,  if 
his  gushing  blood  did  not  much  mislead  me. 

It  was  no  time  to  linger  now:  I  fastened  my 
shoes  in  a  moment,  and  caught  up  my  own  darling 
with  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  where  she  whis- 
pered faintly;  and  telling  Gwenny  to  follow  me,  or 
else  I  would  come  back  for  her  if  she  could  not  walk 
the  snow,  I  ran  the  whole  distance  to  my  sled,  caring 
not  who  might  follow  me.  Then  by  the  time  I  had 
set  up  Lorna,  beautiful  and  smiling,  with  the  seal- 
skin cloak  all  over  her,  sturdy  Gwenny  came  along, 
having  trudged  in  the  track  of  my  snow-shoes,  al- 
though with  two  bags  on  her  back.  I  set  her  in 
beside  her  mistress,  to  support  her  and  keep  warm; 
end  then  with  one  look  back  at  the  glen,  which  had 
been  so  long  my  home  of  heart,  I  hung  behind  the 
sled,  and  launched  it  down  the  steep  and  danger- 
ous way. 

Though  the  cliffs  were  black  above  us,  and  the 
road  unseen  in  front,  and  a  great  white  grave  of 
snow  might  at  a  single  word  come  down,  Lorna  was 
as  calm  and  happy  as  an  infant  in  its  bed.  She 
knew  that  I  was  with  her;  and  when  I  told  her  not 
to  speak  she  touched  my  hand  in  silence.     Gwenny 

315 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

was  in  a  much  greater  fright,  having  never  seen 
such  a  thing  before,  neither  knowing  what  it  is  to 
yield  to  pure  love's  confidence.  I  could  hardly  keep 
her  quiet  without  making  a  noise  myself.  With  my 
staff  from  rock  to  rock,  and  my  weight  thrown 
backward,  I  broke  the  sled's  too  rapid  way,  and 
brought  my  grown  love  safely  out,  by  the  selfsame 
road  which  first  had  led  me  to  her  girlish  fancy  and 
my  bojish  slavery. 

Unpursued,  yet  looking  back  as  if  some  one  must 
be  after  us,  we  skirted  round  the  black  wliirling 
pool  and  gained  the  meadows  beyond  it.  Here  there 
was  hard  collar  work,  the  track  being  all  uphill 
and  rough;  and  Gwenny  wanted  to  jump  out  to 
lighten  the  sled  and  to  push  behind.  But  I  would 
not  hear  of  it;  because  it  was  now  so  deadly  cold 
and  I  feared  that  Lorna  might  get  frozen,  without 
having  Gwenny  to  keep  her  warm.  And  after  all, 
it  was  the  sweetest  labor  I  had  ever  known  in  all 
my  life,  to  be  sure  that  I  was  pulling  Lorna,  and 
pulling  her  to  our  own  farmhouse. 

Gwenny 's  nose  Mas  touched  with  frost  before  we 
had  gone  much  further,  because  she  would  not  keep 
it  quiet  and  snug  beneath  the  sealskin.  And  here 
I  had  to  stop  in  the  moonlight  (which  was  very 
dangerous)  and  rub  it  with  a  clove  of  snow,  as 
Eliza  had  taught  me;  and  Gwenny  scolding  all  the 
time,  as  if  myself  had  frozen  it.  Lorna  was  now 
so  far  oppressed  with  all  the  troubles  of  the  evening 
and  the  joy  that  followed  them,  as  well  as  by  the 
piercing  cold  and  difficulty  of  breathing,  that  she 
lay  quite  motionless,  like  fairest  wax  in  the  moon- 
light— when  we  stole  a  glance  at  her  beneath  the 
dark  folds  of  the  cloak;  and  I  thought  that  she  was 
falling  into  the  heavy  snow-sleep  whence  there  is  no 
awaking. 

Therefore  I  drew  my  traces  tight,  and  set  my 
whole  strength  to  the  business ;  and  we  slipped  along 

316 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

at  a  merry  pace,  although  with  many  joltings,  which 
must  have  sent  my  darling  out  into  the  cold  snow- 
drifts but  for  the  short  strong  arm  of  Gwenny.  And 
so  in  about  an  hour's  time,  in  spite  of  many  hin- 
drances, we  came  home  to  the  old  courtyard,  and 
all  the  dogs  saluted  us.  My  heart  was  quivering  and 
my  cheeks  as  hot  as  the  Doones's  bonfire,  with  won- 
dering both  what  Lorna  would  think  of  our  farm- 
yard and  what  my  mother  would  think  of  her.  Upon 
the  former  subject  my  anxiety  was  wasted,  for 
Lorna  neither  saw  a  thing  nor  even  opened  her 
heavy  eyes.  And  as  to  what  mother  would  think  of 
her,  she  was  certain  not  to  think  at  all,  until  she  had 
cried  over  her. 

And  so  indeed  it  came  to  pass.  Even  at  this 
length  of  time  I  can  hardly  tell  it,  although  so 
bright  before  my  mind,  because  it  moves  my  heart 
so.  The  sled  was  at  the  open  door  with  only  Lorna 
in  it;  for  Gwenny  Carfax  had  jumped  out  and  hung 
back  in  the  clearing,  giving  any  reason  rather  than 
the  only  true  one — that  she  would  not  be  intruding. 
At  the  door  were  all  our  people;  first  of  course 
Betty  Muxworthy,  teaching  me  how  to  draw  the 
sled,  as  if  she  had  been  born  in  it,  and  flourishing 
with  a  great  broom  wherever  a  speck  of  snow  lay. 
Then  dear  Annie,  and  old  Molly  (who  was  very 
quiet  and  counted  almost  for  nobody),  and  beliind 
them  mother,  looking  as  if  she  wanted  to  come  first, 
but  doubted  how  the  manners  lay.  In  the  distance 
Lizzie  stood,  fearful  of  encouraging,  but  unable  to 
keep  out  of  it. 

Betty  was  going  to  poke  her  broom  right  in  under 
the  sealskin  cloak,  where  Lorna  lay  unconscious 
and  where  her  precious  breath  hung  frozen,  like  a 
silver  cobweb !  but  I  caught  up  Betty's  broom  and 
flung  it  clean  away  over  the  corn-chamber;  and 
then  I  put  the  others  by  and  fetched  my  mother 
forward. 

317 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

"  You  shall  see  her  first,"  I  said ;  "  is  she  not  youi 
daughter?    Hold  the  light  there,  Annie." 

Dear  mother's  hands  were  quick  and  trembling 
as  she  opened  the  shining  folds;  and  there  she  saw 
my  Lorna  sleeping,  with  her  black  hair  all  dishev- 
eled, and  she  bent  and  kissed  her  forehead,  and  only 
said,  "  God  bless  her,  John ! "  And  then  she  was 
taken  with  violent  weeping  and  I  was  forced  to 
hold  her. 

"  Us  may  tich  of  her  now,  I  rackon,"  said  Betty 
in  her  most  jealous  way:  "Annie,  tak  her  by  the 
head  and  I'll  tak  her  by  the  toesen.  No  taime  to 
stand  here  like  girt  gawks.  Don'ee  tak  on  zo,  mis- 
sus. Ther  be  vainer  vish  in  the  zea — Lor,  but  her 
be  a  booty !  " 

With  this  they  carried  her  into  the  house,  Betty 
chattering  all  the  while,  and  going  on  now  about 
Lorna's  hands,  and  the  others  crowding  round  her, 
so  that  I  thought  I  was  not  wanted  among  so  many 
women,  and  should  only  get  the  worst  of  it  and  per- 
haps do  harm  to  my  darling.  Therefore  I  went  and 
brought  Gwenny  in,  and  gave  her  a  potful  of  bacon 
and  pease,  and  an  iron  «poon  to  eat  it  with,  which 
she  did  right  heartily. 

Then  I  asked  her  how  she  could  have  been  such 
a  fool  as  to  let  those  two  vile  fellows  enter  the 
house  where  Lorna  was ;  and  she  accounted  for  it  so 
naturally,  that  I  could  only  blame  myself.  For  my 
agreement  had  been  to  give  one  loud  knock  (if  you 
happen  to  remember),  and  after  that  two  little 
knocks.  Well,  these  two  drunken  rogues  had  come; 
and  one,  being  very  drunk  indeed,  had  given  a  great 
thump;  and  then  nothing  more  to  do  it;  and  the 
other,  being  three-quarters  drunk,  had  followed  his 
leader  (as  one  might  say)  but  feebly,  and  making 
two  of  it.  Whereupon  up  jumped  Lorna,  and  de- 
clared that  her  John  was  there. 

All  this    Gwenny   told   me   shortly,   between   the 

318 


IN    THE    DOONE    VALLEY 

whiles  of  eating,  and  even  while  she  licked  the 
spoon:  and  then  there  came  a  message  for  me  that 
my  love  was  sensible  and  was  seeking  all  around  for 
me.  Then  I  told  Gwenny  to  hold  her  tongue  (what- 
ever she  did,  among  us),  and  not  to  trust  to  women's 
words;  and  she  told  me  they  all  were  liars,  as  she 
had  found  out  long  ago;  and  the  only  thing  to  be- 
lieve in  was  an  honest  man,  when  found.  Thereupon 
I  could  have  kissed  her,  as  a  sort  of  tribute,  liking 
to  be  appreciated;  yet  the  pease  upon  her  lips  made 
me  think  about  it;  and  thought  is  fatal  to  action. 
So  I  went  to  see  my  dear. 

That  sight  I  shall  not  forget  till  my  dying  head 
falls  back  and  my  breast  can  lift  no  more.  I  know 
not  whether  I  were  then  more  blessed  or  harrowed 
by  it.  For  in  the  settle  was  my  Lorna,  propped 
with  pillows  round  her,  and  her  clear  hands  spread 
sometimes  to  the  blazing  fireplace.  In  her  eyes  no 
knowledge  was  of  anything  around  her,  neither  in 
her  neck  the  sense  of  leaning  toward  anything.  Only 
both  her  lovely  hands  were  entreating  something  to 
spare  her  or  to  love  her;  and  the  lines  of  supplica- 
tion quivered  in  her  sad  white  face. 

"  All  go  away  except  my  mother,"  I  said  very 
quietly,  but  so  that  I  would  be  obeyed;  and  every- 
body knew  it.  Then  mother  came  to  me  alone  and 
she  said,  "The  frost  is  in  her  brain:  I  have  heard 
of  this  before,  John."  "  Mother,  I  will  have  it  out," 
was  all  that  I  could  answer  her ;  "  leave  her  to  me 
altogether:  only  you  sit  there  and  watch."  For  I 
felt  that  Lorna  knew  me  and  no  other  soul  but  me; 
and  that  if  not  interfered  w^th,  she  would  soon 
come  home  to  me.  Therefore  I  sat  gently  by  her, 
leaving  nature,  as  it  were,  to  her  own  good  time 
and  will.  And  presently  the  glance  that  watched 
me,  as  at  distance  and  in  doubt,  began  to  flutter  and 
to  brighten,  and  to  deepen  into  kindness,  then  to 
beam  with  trust  and  love,  and  then  with  gathering 

319 


RICHARD    DODDRIDGE    BLACKMORE 

tears  to  falter,  and  in  shame  to  turn  away.  But  the 
small,  entreating  hands  found  their  way,  as  if  by  in- 
stinct, to  my  great  protecting  palms;  and  trembled 
there  and  rested  there. 

For  a  little  while  we  lingered  thus,  neither  wish- 
ing to  move  away,  neither  caring  to  look  beyond  the 
presence  of  the  other ;  both  alike  so  full  of  hope,  and 
comfort,  and  true  happiness,  if  only  the  world  would 
let  us  be.  And  theo  a  li^^tle  5ob  disturbed  us,  and 
mothe?  \riea  la  make  beiieye  that  «?hft  was  only 
coughing.  But  Lorna,  guessing  who  .^he  was, 
jumped  up  so  very  rashly  that  she  almost  set  her 
frock  on  fire  from  the  great  ash  log,  and  away  she 
ran  to  the  old  oak  chair,  where  mother  was  by  ihff 
clock-case  pretending  to  be  knitting,  and  she  took 
the  work  from  mother's  hands,  and  laid  them  both 
upon  her  head,  kneeling  humbly,  and  looking  up. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  fair  mistress ! "  said  mother, 
bending  nearer,  and  then  as  Lorna's  gaze  prevailed, 
"  God  bless  you,  my  sweet  child !  " 

And  so  she  went  to  mother's  heart,  by  the  very 
dearest  road,  even  as  she  had  come  to  mine;  I  mean 
the  road  of  pity,  smoothed  by  grace,  and  youth,  and 
^ntleness. 


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